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GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 


OTHER  BOOKS 

BY 

JOSEPH  A.  ALTSHELER 


Before  the  Dawn 

In  Hostile  Red 

In  Circling  Camps 

The  Wilderness  Road 

A  Herald  of  the  West 

My  Captive 

The  Last  Rebel 

A  Soldier  of  Manhattan 

The  Sun  of  Saratoga 


1  Guthrie  knew  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  the  sentences  flowed 
from  his  pen  " 

Set  page  ir; 


Guthrie  of  the  Times 

A  Story  of  Success 

By 

JOSEPH  A.   ALTSHELER 


Illustrated  bj  F.  R.  Grugtr 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &    COMPANY 
1904 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 

THE  SUCCESS  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 

COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED,  OCTOBER,  IQO4 


SRLF 
URL 

5140952 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  The  Writer  and  the  Bishop 

II.  On  Common  Ground  . 

III.  A  Session  of  the  House 

IV.  After  the  First  Gun     . 

V.  In  the  Governor's  House     . 

VI.  A  Maker  of  Reputations      • 

VII.  At  Mount  Eagle  . 

VIII.  The  Case  Against  Carton    . 

IX.  Into  the  Wilderness 

X.  The  Test  of  Steel 

XI.  The  Great  Snow 

XII.  Guthrie  and  the  Senator 

XHI.  In  the  Realms  of  Finance    . 

XIV.  Guthrie's  Despatch      . 

XV.  Temptation 

XVI.  The  Fight  in  the  Old  Fourth 

XVII.  The  Convention  . 

XVIII.  The  Secrets  of  a  Night 

XIX.  The  Deadlock     . 

XX.  The  Breath  of  Fame  . 


THE  CHARACTERS 

WILLIAM  GUTHRIE,  the  correspondent  of  The  Times 

PHILIP  CARTON,  the  speaker  of  the  House 

PAUL  HASTINGS,  the  governor  of  the  State 

"  JIMMY  "  WARFIELD,  a  member  of  the  House 

Mr.  PURSLEY,  a  member  of  the  House 

The  Reverend  ZEDEKIAH  PIKE,  a  member  of  the  State 

Senate 

Mr.  COBB,  a  member  of  the  State  Senate 
Mr.  DENNISON,  a  United  States  Senator 
THE  BISHOP 

TEMPLETON,  a  clerk  of  the  State  government 
CAIUS  MARCELLUS  HARLOW,  a  lobbyist 
"  PETE  "  DILGER,  a  mountain  feud  leader 
CHARLIE  WARREN,  a  New  York  financier 
Mr.  STETSON,  a  famous  editor 
HENRY  CLAY  WARNER,  a  member  of  Congress 
TIMOTHY  O'HARA,  a  ward  politician 
JOHN  RANSOME,  a  rich  merchant 
CLARICE  RANSOME,  John  Ransome's  daughter 
Mrs.  RANSOME,  John  Ransome's  wife 
LUCY  HASTINGS,  the  governor's  wife 
MARY  PELHAM,  a  general's  daughter 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Guthrie  knew  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and 

the  sentences  flowed  from  his  pen  "  .       Fnmisni<» 

FACING  PAGE 

" '  I  know  that  he  is  a  particular  friend  of  the 
Governor  and  yourself,'  replied  Clarice,  'and 
hence  I  am  afraid  not  to  like  him  "  .  .90 

"With  his  rifle  levelled,  savage,  implacable,   never 

dreaming  of  mercy "         •        •         •         •         .164 

"  '  But  I  am  going  to  ask  for  far  more  than  I  have 

now'"    .  338 


GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 


GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

A  STORT  OF  SUCCESS 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP 

BILLY  GUTHRIE  of  the  Times  was  not  hard 
of  heart,  and  he  was  sorry  the  papers  had 
come  into  his  hands,  because  he  saw  before 
him  an  unpleasant  duty  that  must  be  done.    The  knowl- 
edge was  not  of  his  seeking,  having  been  brought  to 
him— and  there  was  some  consolation  in  the  thought 
— but  keen  though  he  was  in  the  search  of  news,  he  was 
willing  that  any  other  correspondent  should  have  the 
task  of  first  reporting  it  to  the  world. 

He  had  known  Templeton  a  long  time,  a  young  man 
of  the  kind  welcome  in  any  company,  quick  to  tell  a 
good  story,  and  following  all  amusements  with  a  zest 
that  soon  spread  to  others.  Everybody  liked  Tem- 
pleton and  liked  to  be  with  him.  It  was  these  qualities 
of  good  fellowship,  reaching  all  in  a  little  capital  like 
this,  that  won  for  him  his  responsible  place  in  an  office 
of  the  State  government  where  much  money  was 
handled. 

Guthrie's  acquaintance  with  Templeton  had  not 
been  very  intimate— the  two  men  were  too  unlike  in 
temperament  and  ambition— but,  despite  his  youth,  the 

3 


4  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

faculty  of  observation  was  already  highly  trained  in 
him  by  the  nature  of  his  profession,  and,  when  he  first 
came  to  the  capital  to  report  the  session  of  the  Legis- 
lature for  the  Times,  he  had  taken  note  of  Templeton, 
as  one  of  the  figures  in  the  scenic  setting. 

He  had  liked  Templeton  at  first,  attracted  as  others 
were  by  his  easy  good  humour  and  adaptability,  but 
after  a  while  he  began  to  wonder  how  the  man  could 
attend  to  the  duties  of  his  office  and  yet  have  so  much 
time  for  good  fellowship.  The  same  thought  perhaps 
had  occurred  to  others,  but  it  was  said  that  the  influ- 
ence of  Templeton's  family,  an  old  and  powerful  one 
established  three  generations  in  the  capital,  protected 
him  in  a  place  in  which  the  duties  were  nominal,  or  done 
by  others. 

Now  it  was  all  clear  to  Guthrie,  nor  was  it  a  surprise; 
he  had  long  suspected  such  an  issue;  it  was  a  common 
case,  he  had  come  in  contact  with  others  like  it  in  the 
course  of  his  professional  career — a  fondness  for  good 
living,  an  excessive  expenditure,  and  then  a  hand  in  a 
purse  not  one's  own.  The  defalcation  would  not  em- 
barrass the  department,  but  it  was  large  enough,  and 
the  prominence  of  Templeton's  family  would  arouse 
still  further  interest. 

Guthrie  put  the  papers  in  his  pocket,  and  walked 
across  the  tessellated  floor  of  the  hotel  toward  one  of 
the  front  doors.  It  was  early,  but  half  a  dozen  mem- 
bers of  the  House  or  Senate  were  already  in  the  lobby 
which  was  the  heart  of  the  little  capital— a  natural 
gathering-place,  leading  to  the  half-true  jest  that  more 
legislation  was  done  there  than  in  the  Capitol.  All  of 
them  spoke  courteously,  some  warmly,  to  Guthrie,  be- 
cause he  was  a  young  man  of  gravity  and  weight, 


THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP          5 

and,  moreover,  the  representative  of  the  State's 
most  powerful  newspaper;  therefore,  he  was  not  to 
be  neglected. 

Guthrie  replied  to  their  greetings,  and  went  out 
the  steps,  where  he  stood  in  the  full  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing sunshine,  a  smoothly-shaven  young  man,  with  the 
clear-cut,  classic  face  that  one  often  sees  in  this  State, 
which  is  of  both  the  South  and  the  West,  and  not 
wholly  of  either. 

Guthrie  breathed  the  crisp  wintry  air,  and  felt 
it  was  good  to  live.  This  capital,  with  its  ten  thousand 
people,  nestling  in  the  warm  hollow  between  the  hills 
on  the  two  sides  of  the  silver  river,  always  appealed  to 
him— it  seemed  so  snug,  so  homelike  and  so  content 
with  itself— and  he  was  glad  to  be  there. 

But  he  could  not  forget  Templeton,  and  he  was 
troubled.  For  Templeton  himself,  he  did  not  greatly 
care,  but  he  knew  Templeton's  sister,  and  then  there 
was  a  mother— such  disclosures  as  these  always  fall 
most  heavily  on  the  women.  His  duty,  as  he  saw  it, 
became  more  unpleasant  than  ever. 

There  was  a  crunch  of  wheels  on  the  gravel,  and 
Templeton  himself  in  a  high  cart  drove  past.     Guthrie 
observed  him  keenly,  and,  even  at  the  distance,  noticed 
the  black  marks  of  dissipation  under  his  eyes. 
Guthrie  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Nine-fifteen,"  he  murmured,  "and  I  know  that 
Templeton  is  due  in  his  office  at  8.30." 

Templeton  drove  briskly  down  the  street,  and  then 
over  the  bridge.  Guthrie  saw  him  presently,  a  dimin- 
ished figure,  on  the  white  road  that  wound  among  the 
hills  beyond  the  town,  a  favourite  drive  there,  and 
he  knew  Templeton  was  enjoying  time  that  really 


6  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

belonged  to  the  State;   but,  as  for  himself,  he  must 
go  to  work. 

The  session  of  the  Legislature  that  day  was  short 
tfnd  dry,  and  Guthrie,  returning  to  his  hotel  early  in 
the  afternoon,  went  to  his  room,  where  he  wrote  his 
brief  despatch  to  the  Times,  telling  of  the  day's  events 
at  the  Capitol.  Then  he  put  it  aside,  to  be  filed  at  six 
o'clock,  and,  taking  a  fresh  pad  of  paper,  approached 
the  matter  of  Templeton's  defalcation. 

Guthrie's  troubled  state  of  mind  returned,  and  again 
he  was  sorry  that  this  exclusive  piece  of  news  had  come 
into  his  hands;  otherwise,  he  should  have  been  released 
from  a  responsibility  that  he  did  not  like. 

The  despatch  was  hard  to  begin,  and  as  he  tapped 
the  pencil  on  the  paper  in  thought,  his  bell  rang.  The 
coloured  boy  handed  him  a  card,  with  the  information 
that  the  gentleman  was  waiting  below. 

Guthrie  read  the  name  on  the  card  with  surprise. 
"The  Bishop!"  he  said  to  himself.  "What  can  he 
want  with  me?  At  any  rate,  I  must  not  keep  him 
waiting." 

The  Bishop  was  one  of  the  best-beloved  men  in  his 
State — and  beyond  it.  For  forty  years,  his  good  deeds 
had  carried  his  name  before  him.  He  was  one  who 
always  leaned  to  the  side  of  charity  and  mercy,  and  his 
character  was  stamped  on  his  features.  There  were 
few  who  were  not  familiar  with  his  gentle  face,  the  kind 
eyes  and  the  crown  of  snow-white  hair.  Guthrie  knew 
him  well;  more  than  once  had  he  been  a  visitor  in  his 
house,  and  like  others  he  felt  a  genuine  reverence  for 
the  Bishop's  spotless  character,  and  the  noble  distinc- 
tion so  well  earned. 

The  Bishop  was  standing  alone  in  the  large  parlour, 


THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP          7 

gazing  thoughtfully  through  the  window  at  the  silver 
band  of  the  river  and  the  lofty  curve  of  the  hills  beyond, 
now  clothed  in  the  sober  brown  of  winter.  But  he 
heard  Guthrie's  step  at  the  door,  and  he  turned 

at  once. 

"My  son,"  he  said—  the  paternal  manner  became 
him—  "I  am  glad  that  I  have  found  you." 

"But  why  did  you  come  here?"  exclaimed  Guthrie 
reproachfully.  "  Had  you  sent  me  a  message  that  you 
wanted  me,  I  should  have  gone  at  once  to  your  house. 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  do  so." 

"  I  thought  it  best  to  see  you  here,"  replied  the  Bishop. 
"To  have  brought  you  to  my  house  would  have  been 
taking—  perhaps—  an  unfair  advantage,  because,  old 
as  I  am,  it  is  I  who  have  the  favour  to  ask,  and  it  is  for 
you  to  grant  it—  if  you  will." 

A  gentle  smile  lighted  up  the  fine  old  eyes,  but 
Guthrie,  a  keen  and  trained  observer,  noticed  that  he 
moved  his  fingers  nervously.  He  divined  the  purpose 
of  the  Bishop's  errand,  and  became  wary  at  once,  but 

he  replied: 

"If  there  is  any  way  in  which  I  can  be  of  service,  it 
shall  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  do  what  you  ask." 

The  Bishop  looked  again  through  the  window  at  the 
silver  river  and  the  brown  hills  beyond.  A  faint  flush 
came  into  his  face,  imparting  to  it  a  singular,  delicate 
beauty  like  that  of  youth;  it  was  this  vivid  quality 
in  the  Bishop  that  gave  so  fine  a  touch  to  his  life  and 


c  . 

"Mine  is  a  delicate  errand,   Mr.   Guthrie,  and 
should  have  felt  some    hesitation  in  coming  upon^it 
to  any  one  except  yourself,  whom  I  know  so  well." 

Guthrie  was  silent,  his  hand  resting  lightly  upon  the 


8  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

back  of  a  chair.  The  Bishop  paused — despite  his  own 
words,  he  hesitated. 

"It's  about  Mr.  Templeton  that  I  wish  to  speak  to 
you." 

"Yes,"  said  Guthrie  respectfully. 

"It  has  become  known  to  his  family  that  certain 
facts  concerning  him  were  given  to  you  this  morning — 
facts  which,  if  published  to  the  world,  would  ruin  him 
and  disgrace  an  old  and  honoured  name." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Guthrie. 

"And  these  facts,  I  understand,"  continued  the 
Bishop,  "are  in  your  hands  alone;  they  have  not,  I 
believe,  come  to  the  knowledge  of  any  other  newspaper 
man." 

"That  also  is  true,"  assented  Guthrie. 

The  Bishop  paused,  and  with  one  hand  threw  back 
the  thick,  white  hair  from  his  brow. 

"It  is  hardly  necessary  for  me,  Mr.  Guthrie,  "to 
tell  now  why  I  am  here,"  he  continued.  "His  mother 
and  sister  came  to  me  at  once — they  were  aware  that 
I  had  known  you  all  your  life,  that  I  had  confirmed  you 
— it  was  very  pitiful,  their  grief  and  terror.  There 
is  no  denial  of  the  cruel  and  disgraceful  facts — he  took 
the  money,  but  he  did  not  learn  until  noon  that  it  had 
been  discovered.  They  hurried  him  away  an  hour  later 
on  a  train  to  the  North,  where  he  will  remain  until — 
until  atonement  is  made,  which  will  be  very  soon.  His 
family  will  repay  the  money,  the  State  will  not  lose  any- 
thing, and  his  good  name  and  theirs  will  be  saved — 
that  is,  if  you  do  not  send  anything  about  it  to  your 
newspaper,  and  make  his  disgrace  and  theirs  known 
to  all  the  world." 

Guthrie  moved  uneasily,  and  his  eyes  shifted  away 


THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP          9 

from  the  mild  gaze  of  the  old  Bishop.  He  felt  all  the 
pity  and  pathos  of  this  tragedy,  but  as  before,  his  feeling 
was  more  for  the  mother  and  sister  and  less  for  Tem- 
pleton. 

His  eyes  came  back,  and  met  the  gaze  of  the  Bishop. 
The  sense  of  professional  duty  was  strong  in  him,  he 
considered  himself  in  a  way  a  public  servant,  one  to 
whom  the  people  of  the  State  looked  for  a  faithful  report 
about  their  public  affairs,  an  office  little,  perhaps  no 
less  than  priestly,  and  he  did  not  believe  that  he  had  a 
right  to  take  liberties  with  such  a  trust. 

"  If  I  do  not  send  this  report,  the  crime  stands  com- 
mitted nevertheless,"  he  said.  "Templeton  remains 
the  same." 

"It  is  true  that  he  is  the  same  now,"  replied  the 
Bishop,  "but  will  he  be  the  same  hereafter?  If  you 
suppress  this  report,  will  you  not  be  giving  him  another 
chance— an  opportunity  to  reform  ?  Circumstances  have 
put  in  your  hands  the  fate  of  a  young  man  and  the 
honour  of  an  old  family;  this  report  is  a  small  matter  to 
you,  an  incident  of  the  day's  work,  and  why  should  you 
hesitate  to  grant  the  request  of  this  stricken  mother  and 

sister?" 

Guthrie  was  conscious  at  that  moment  of  a  keen  sense 
of  admiration  for  the  Bishop's  fine  face,  the  humanity 
and  mercy  shining  from  his  eyes,  the  lofty  nature  of  an 
appeal  made  without  any  sacrifice  of  dignity.  Why 
should  he  not  give  the  promise  at  once,  and  feel  the 
pleasant  glow  that  gratitude  confers  ?  But  the  sense  of 
duty  to  his  profession,  his  loyalty  to  those  whom  he 
served,  came  back  to  him,  and,  with  it,  a  slight  rebellion 
against  an  implication  in  the  Bishop's  words. 

"But  is  it  fair,"  he  asked,  "to  put  the  burden  upon 


10  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

me  ?  I  have  not  had  anything  to  do  with  this  money;  I 
am  not  one  of  Templeton's  associates.  I  suppose  that 
a  man,  in  a  measure,  makes  himself.  Should  not  Tem- 
pleton,  then,  stand  the  consequences  of  what  he  has 

done?" 

"In  such  a  case  as  this,"  replied  the  Bishop,  "we  do 
not  apply  a  logic  so  cold.  Templeton  will  reform.  His 
life  will  be  saved  from  ruin,  and  his  mother  and  sister 
will  be  able  to  hold  up  their  heads  in  the  community  in 
which  they  have  lived  all  their  lives." 

Guthrie  in  his  heart  did  not  believe  in  Templeton's 
reformation,  but  he  was  willing  to  put  that  phase  of  the 
matter  aside  and  confine  himself  to  his  own  personal 
responsibility  in  the  case. 

"Would  you  be  willing,"  he  asked,  "for  me  to  speak 
to  you  as  I  should  to  a  man  of  my  own  age  and  position?" 
"I  would  not  have  you  do  otherwise,"  replied  the 
Bishop  with  his  kindly  smile.     "  I  wish  to  put  this  ques- 
tion upon  a  basis  wholly  fair." 

Guthrie's  glance  wandered,  as  the  Bishop's  had  done, 
to  the  silver  river  and  the  rim  of  brown  hills,  but  came 
back  and  met  those  of  the  old  man. 

"We  have  spoken  only  of  Templeton  and  his  family," 
he  said,  "and  we  have  disregarded  my  own  position  in 
this  affair.  Suppose,  we  speak  of  myself  as  we  should  of 
a  third  person.  I  will  admit  that  the  press  is  often  sen- 
sational, that  it  prints  some  things  that  are  bad  and 
more  that  are  frivolous.  But  there  are  also  bad  and 
frivolous  lawyers  and  physicians  and — pardon  me — 
clergymen.  These  things  do  not  alter  the  fact  that  the 
press  has  a  duty  to  perform— to  narrate  faithfully  to  the 
world  the  public  events  that  are  occurring  each  day, 
and,  if  it  fail  in  any  particular,  when  the  information  is 


11 

in  its  possession,  is  it  not  as  much  at  fault  as  a  lawyer 
who  betrays  his  client  or  a  clergyman  who  neglects  the 
moral  welfare  of  his  people?  Should  there  be  one 
moral  standard  for  the  church  and  a  lower  one  for  the 
press  ?  Did  I  not  take  an  unsworn  oath  when  I  entered 
the  employ  of  the  Times  to  serve  it  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  and  should  I  not  be  breaking  that  oath  if  I  failed 
to  send  to  it  the  news  of  Templeton's  defalcation?  In 
my  profession,  loyalty  to  those  whom  we  serve  is  the 
heart  of  our  code  of  honour,  and  I  am  proud  that  it  is 
so.  It  enables  us  to  endure  much,  to  scorn  the  obloquy 
that  we  know  is  undeserved,  to  follow  with  zeal  a  voca- 
tion so  necessary  to  our  world,  and  yet  you  ask  me  to 
violate  it  merely  to  oblige  some  one.'* 

Guthrie's  face  flushed  slightly.  He  took  the  loftiest 
view  of  his  calling,  and  the  Bishop  had  asked  him  to 
speak  as  one  man  would  to  another  of  like  age  and 
position.  It  often  seemed  to  him  that  people  of  the 
general  world— "outsiders"  he  called  them— were  obsti- 
nate in  not  recognising  these  duties  of  a  newspaper; 
they  would  persist  in  regarding  it  as  something  which 
should  stroke  and  soothe  the  public  and  make  it  feel 
good,  and  would  ignore  its  true  and  only  functions— 
those  of  the  historian  and  the  critic.  The  Bishop,  a  man 
of  the  noblest  character,  seemed  to  him  to  typify  this 
vjew — a  crude  one,  he  considered  it — and  again  he  felt 
a  sense  of  rebellion  that  one  of  such  high  qualities 
should  consider  a  young  reporter's  moral  obligation  less 
than  his  own;  in  fact,  something  not  to  be  reckoned  with 
in  the  scheme  of  the  world's  work. 

The  Bishop  shook  his  head,  as  if  in  dissent,  but  his 
blue  eyes  shone  with  a  benevolent  gaze.  He  laid  his 
hand  lightly  and  for  a  moment  on  Guthrie's  shoulder. 


12  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

The  act  was  paternal,  and  Guthrie  recognised  in  it  the 
fact  that  the  clergyman,  despite  his  wish  to  speak  from  a 
plane  of  perfect  equality  in  age  and  otherwise,  could  not 
do  so — a  long  habit  of  thought  would  not  permit  it. 

"I  honour  the  quality  in  your  character  that  makes 
you  speak  as  you  do,"  said  the  Bishop,  "but  I  think  it 
comes  from  a  mistaken  preconception  of  the  world  and 
one's  duty  to  it.  It  is  the  fault  of  youth  to  generalise  too 
much,  to  think  that  no  rule  has  an  exception,  and  we 
find  later  that  the  world  does  not  work  that  way.  We 
of  the  church,  the  smallest  part  of  whose  duty  is  the  ser- 
mons we  preach,  best  know  it.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I 
tell  you  that  it  is  better  to  spare  a  family  than  to  send  a 
despatch  to  a  newspaper." 

"But  should  you  tell  me  that?"  exclaimed  Guthrie. 
"Mine  is  a  public  service,  made  so  by  universal  necessity 
and  universal  consent.  I  have  a  managing  editor  back 
there  in  the  city  who  is  my  general.  He  is  a  machine; 
when  he  comes  on  duty  at  eight  o'clock,  he  leaves  all 
human  emotion  behind  him,  not  to  be  taken  up  again 
until  the  paper  goes  to  press  again  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning — that  is  why  he  is  such  a  valuable  man- 
aging editor.  He  is  exactly  like  a  general  in  a  real  cam- 
paign, marshalling  his  forces  for  the  most  effective 
exertion  of  strength.  Now,  here  am  I,  a  sentinel  at  an 
advanced  post.  I  have  seen  something  more  than  sus- 
picious, and  you  ask  me  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  my 
general — in  fact,  you  ask  me  to  let  a  deserter  slip  by 
because  it  will  save  the  feelings  of  his  family  I" 

The  Bishop  felt  a  faint  sense  of  irritation,  though  he 
concealed  it  from  Guthrie.  The  newspapers  of  his 
youth  had  been  mere  personal  or  political  organs,  de- 
voted to  the  interests  of  a  man  or  a  party,  and  having 


THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP         13 

their  relations  with  the  public  only  through  that  man 
or  party.  He  could  not  grow  used  to  the  new  view,  the 
view  held  by  a  new  generation,  that  a  newspaper  should 
be  a  prompt  and  accurate  chronicler  of  public  events, 
turning  aside  for  nobody. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  "  in  looking  upon 
yourself  as,  in  some  sense,  a  judge." 

"Not  as  a  judge,"  replied  Guthrie,  "but  as  a  clerk  of 
the  court.  It  is  for  me  to  report  to  the  judge  all  things 
that  come  within  my  province,  and  then  the  judge,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  can  take  what  action  he  thinks  fit." 

"But  you  forget,"  said  the  Bishop  earnestly,  "that  the 
newspaper  is,  in  its  inception  at  least,  a  private  enter- 
prise, and  that  the  materials  of  its  trade  are  human 
beings.  The  printed  word  that  you  write  so  easily  and 
forget  so  quickly  may  wreck  a  life.  It  is,  therefore,  a 
power  which  should  be  used  sparingly.  I  know  of  none 
other  in  which  self-restraint  is  worth  so  much." 

"I  concede  all  you  say,"  replied  Guthrie,  "but  I  do 
not  think  it  touches  the  main  issue.  Your  criticism 
applies  only  to  the  newspapers  which  turn  aside  from 
their  duty,  which  exaggerate  or  tell  untruths  or  distort 
from  the  true  proportion,  and,  above  all,  I  do  not  think  it 
applies  to  my  own  personal  responsibility  in  this  case. 
I  serve  a  company  which,  in  its  turn,  is  supposed  to  serve 
the  public,  and  my  loyalty  is  due  directly  to  the  com- 
pany. I  do  not  feel  that  I  can  betray  it." 

The  Bishop  was  still  standing  by  the  window,  tapping 
lightly  on  the  pane  with  his  forefinger,  a  troubled  look 
in  his  blue  eyes.  In  his  heart,  he  thought  Guthrie  a  very 
stubborn  young  man  and  a  creator  of  false  issues.  And 
his  sense  of  irritation  was  increased  by  the  memory  of 
the  home  that  he  had  left,  the  grief  and  terror  of  the 


14  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

mother  and  sister.  These  were  the  things  that  dwelled 
in  his  mind. 

The  brown  hills  melted  away  in  the  twilight,  the 
silver  river  became  faint,  and  night  sank  down  over  the 
little  capital.  The  Bishop's  face  was  in  the  shadow  as 
he  turned  again  to  Guthrie. 

"If  you  refuse  our  request,"  he  said,  and  for  the  first 
time  there  was  a  note  of  sternness  in  his  voice,  "yours 
will  be  the  responsibility  for  ruining  a  home." 

Guthrie  flushed,  but  he  did  not  retreat. 

"It  is  such  a  charge  as  that  which  I  and  any  one  in 
my  profession  who  serves  it  well  resents  most,"  he 
replied.  "Should  I  be  controlled  by  sentiment  or  by 
duty  ?  If  I  am  faithless  in  this  instance,  why  should  I 
not  be  equally  so  in  others,  and  who  is  to  judge  where 
the  limit  shall  be  ?  If  the  claim  of  Templeton  to  sup- 
pression of  his  crime  be  good,  then  the  claims  of  all 
others  who  commit  crime  are  equally  good,  and  I,  in 
this  case  at  least,  should  become  an  accessory.  Mine 
would  be  the  sin  of  omission  which  differs  only  in  degree 
from  that  of  commission." 

"You  think  of  yourself  only,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
the  note  of  reproof  in  his  voice  grew  stronger.  "  It  is  of 
your  own  career  and  of  strengthening  a  particular 
profession,  a  desire  that  it  shall  acquire  a  reputation  for 
omniscience,  that  you  are  thinking,  not  of  a  family's 
honour  and  the  forgiveness  which  the  Book  tells  us  we 
must  have  for  the  weak  and  the  erring." 

It  was  said  of  the  Bishop  that  he  could  have  his  stern 
moments,  that  he  could  become  terrible  in  his  wrath, 
and  now  Guthrie  saw  the  suppressed  fire  in  his  eyes. 
But  the  discipline  of  years,  the  code  of  a  profession  as 
stern  and  exacting  as  the  military,  lay  heavily  upon  him; 


THE  WRITER  AND  THE  BISHOP        15 

he  felt  that,  if  he  yielded  to  the  Bishop's  request,  he  must 
become  a  traitor  and  regard  himself  as  one. 

Yet  he  valued  the  friendship  of  this  man,  and  he  was 
not  willing  to  lose  it. 

"  I  think  that  you  do  me  an  injustice,"  he  said;  "yours 
— again  pardon  me — is  the  hasty  view.  It  is  no  pleasure 
to  me,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  pain,  to  send  a  report  of 
Templeton's  crime.  No  man  of  the  right  kind  in  my 
profession  ever  rejoices  over  having  to  do  such  a  thing; 
but  we  cannot  escape  it.  We  are  the  chroniclers  of  the 
world's  daily  doings  and  that,  like  history,  is  to  some 
extent  the  record  of  its  crimes  and  follies;  but  we  do  not 
commit  the  evil,  we  merely  state  that  it  exists — that  is, 
we  tell  where  the  poison  lies." 

The  Bishop  turned  away  again  and  looked  through 
the  window.  A  tear  glittered  on  his  eyelid,  but  Guthrie 
did  not  see  it.  The  silver  river  shone  through  the  dusk, 
and  the  electric  lights  twinkled  like  stars.  The  mother 
and  sister  were  still  in  the  Bishop's  mind;  he  was  faith- 
ful to  them. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  too  many  systems 
have  been  invented  since  my  youth.  We  have  grown 
too  fond  of  classifying  and  generalising.  I  find  some- 
thing cold  and  hard  in  the  youth  of  to-day.  If  society 
is  to  be  organised  into  a  single  merciless  machine,  each 
wheel  and  cog  doing  an  exact  part  and  no  more,  then 
something  human  has  gone  out  of  it,  and  I,  for  one, 
prefer  the  old  to  the  new.  I  should  wish  to  have  back 
again  the  editor  who  was  swayed  by  human  considera- 
tions, even  if  he  were  selfish  and  a  place-seeker,  and  to 
lose  him  of  to-day  who,  like  your  managing  editor  as 
you  describe  him,  becomes  from  8  P.  M.  to  3  A.  M. — a 
metallic  creature,  wound  up  like  a  watch." 


16  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"The  more  nearly  we  reach  that  ideal,  the  more  nearly 
my  profession  realises  perfection,"  said  Guthrie,  "be- 
cause it  is  something  apart,  and  it  is  necessary  for  those 
who  serve  it  to  suppress  their  weaker  emotions.  And 
often  it  is  hard  to  do  it.  Templeton's  mother  and  sister 
will  grieve,  and  so  shall  I — but  I  am  helpless.  It  is  he, 
not  I,  who  will  make  them  grieve." 

"I  shall  leave  it  to  your  conscience,"  said  the  Bishop. 
His  mild  eyes  were  full  of  reproach  and  pain.  He 
started  toward  the  table  to  take  his  hat  and  cane,  but 
Guthrie  was  before  him,  glad  to  serve  an  old  man  whom 
he  respected  so  much. 

"I  hope  to  hear  to-morrow  that  you  have  suppressed 
this  news,  my  son,"  said  the  Bishop  as  he  went  out. 

But  they  met  by  chance  in  the  street  two  hours  later, 
and  the  Bishop's  look  was  questioning. 

"I  am  just  coming  from  the  telegraph  office,"  said 
Guthrie.  "I  have  sent  the  Times  a  thousand  words 
about  Templeton." 

The  Bishop  frowned,  and  turned  away  without  a 
word.  Guthrie  raised  his  head,  and  walked  on  toward 
the  Capitol. 


CHAPTER  II 
ON  COMMON  GROUND 

IT  was  near  the  end  of  the  twilight  hour,  and  over  the 
river  and  the  hills  hung  a  hazy  dusk,  through  which  the 
walls  of  the  Capitol,  yellow  with  age,  showed  but  dimly. 
No  lights  shone  at  any  of  its  windows,  and  the  ancient 
trees  in  the  grounds  waved  solemn  branches.  It  was  a 
small  and  primitive  Capitol,  built  by  the  State  in  its 
earliest  youth  when  there  was  little  money  to  spare,  but 
it  had  both  beauty  and  nobility,  and  it  yet  resisted  all 
efforts  to  replace  it.  An  old  State  senator  had  wisely 
said,  "You  may  erect  a  Capitol  very  much  costlier, 
very  much  larger,  and  very  much  uglier,  and  then  make 
in  it  very  much  worse  laws  than  we  do  here,"  and  his 
words  carried  conviction. 

Guthrie  looked  up  at  the  building  with  a  certain 
reverence  and  pride.  Like  all  citizens  of  the  State,  he 
was  intensely  proud  of  his  birth  in  it,  and  the  antiquated 
structure,  where  so  many  young  men,  afterward  famous 
in  the  larger  arena  of  the  nation,  had  made  their  maiden 
speeches,  was  to  him  full  of  associations  and  the  charm 
of  history  and  poetry. 

It  was  with  such  thoughts  as  these  that  he  sought  to 
detach  himself  from  the  severe  test  through  which  he 
had  gone.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart  to  disappoint  the 
Bishop,  one  of  the  best  of  men  and  his  friend;  but  he 
felt  that  he  had  done  his  duty  though  he  would  find  only 

17 


18  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

a  minority  taking  the  same  view.  For  Templeton,  he 
yet  had  little  pity;  his  disgrace  was  sure  to  come  soon  or 
late — it  had  merely  fallen  to  Guthrie's  lot  to  record  it, 
as  it  might  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  somebody  else.  But 
thoughts  of  the  mother  and  sister  would  come,  neverthe- 
less, and,  turning  away  from  the  Capitol,  he  went  to  his 
hotel.  "  I  need  lights  and  the  sound  of  human  voices," 
he  thought,  "and  I  shall  go  where  they  are." 

Mrs.  Senator  Dennison  was  to  give  one  of  her  semi- 
monthly receptions  that  evening,  and  it  was  sure  to  be 
attended  largely,  because  Mrs.  Dennison  was  not  only 
a  power  socially  and  politically,  but  the  house  over 
which  this  handsome  and  tactful  woman  presided  was 
the  pleasantest  in  the  little  city.  John  Dennison  was 
not  a  State  senator,  which  is  important  in  itself,  but  a 
United  States  Senator — a  far  grander  thing.  An  old 
man  yet  fresh  and  robust,  with  a  long  and  distinguished 
public  career  in  the  State,  he  had  been  elected  at  the 
preceding  session  of  the  Legislature  to  the  United  States 
Senate;  but  his  young  wife  still  maintained  a  home  in 
the  little  capital  in  which  she  had  been  born  and  where 
she  was,  with  the  new  prestige  of  her  husband,  a  social 
queen.  Here  wisdom  went  hand  in  hand  with  inclina- 
tion, because,  as  her  husband  was  the  creation  of  the 
Legislature,  and  both  he  and  she  would  certainly  wish 
him  to  be  recreated  at  the  end  of  his  six  years,  it  was 
well  to  turn  constantly  a  smiling  face  upon  the  creating 
power.  The  old  senator,  with  all  his  rugged  ability  and 
practical  judgment,  did  not  know  how  much  his  young 
wife  helped  him  in  the  building  of  his  political  fortune. 

Guthrie  was  sure  of  a  welcome  at  the  Dennison 
home.  The  press  in  his  State  was  not  sensational, 
and  its  relations  with  public  men  were  friendly  and 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  19 

pleasant;  moreover,  the  Times  was  a  power,  and  its 
correspondent  at  the  capital  was  not  a  man  to  be  neg- 
lected. It  was  his  second  "term"  there.  At  his  first, 
he  had  been  but  a  boy,  and  many  of  the  members  won- 
dered that  the  Times  should  send  one  so  young  to 
represent  it  in  a  position  of  such  importance;  but 
Guthrie's  dignity,  judgment,  and  absolute  honesty  soon 
convinced  them  that  the  editor  of  the  Times  knew 
what  he  was  about  when  he  despatched  him  to  the 

capital. 

Guthrie  put  on  his  evening  clothes  and  a  light  over- 
coat, and  walked  out  in  the  frosty  air  toward  the  Den- 
nison  home,  which  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
though  but  a  short  distance  away.  He  stopped  a  few 
moments  at  the  middle  of  the  long  bridge,  and  looked 
far  up  the  broad,  deep  river— a  sheet  of  molten  silver 
in  the  dusk.  On  the  left,  in  the  cemetery  at  the  top  of 
the  high  cliff,  the  marble  monuments  erected  to  the 
State's  illustrious  dead  gleamed  snow-white;  often 
Guthrie  had  walked  there,  and  oftenest  he  paused 
before  the  shaft  to  those  fallen  in  the  Mexican  War, 
where  the  poet  had  first  read  the  solemn  and  famous 
line:  "The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat." 

Guthrie's  State  pride  swelled  afresh;  it  always 
seemed  to  him  that  his  State  was  full  of  poetry  and 
romance,  and  most  of  all  now,  in  the  night,  with  the 
deep  river  flowing  under  him,  the  white  monuments 
covering  the  hills,  and  the  lumberman  on  his  raft  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream  singing  softly  some  melancholy 
ballad  of  the  distant  mountains  from  which  he  and  the 
river  came.  He  forgot,  for  the  moment,  all  about 
Templeton  and  Mrs.  Dennison,  too.  There  was  a 
strain  of  sentiment  in  his  nature  which  perhaps  kept 


20  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

him  from  being  the  lawyer  that  he  had  wanted 
to  be,  and  turned  him  into  the  newspaper  man  that 
he  was. 

But  the  present  soon  came  back,  and  turning  away 
from  the  hills  and  the  river,  he  was  in  five  minutes  at 
Mrs.  Dennison's  door,  where  lights  and  voices  alike 
were  plentiful. 

"We  are  glad  to  see  you  Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mrs. 
Dennison.  "Of  course  we  all  bow  to  the  press." 

"And  not  to  me  in  my  humble  personal  capacity." 

"We  value  you,  too,  for  your  own  sake,"  she  said. 

She  was  tall,  blonde,  and  smiling,  a  woman  of  will, 
capacity,  and  thirty  years.  Beside  her  stood  the  gov- 
ernor's wife,  Mrs.  Hastings,  who  was  yet  a  girl — Paul 
Hastings  was  the  youngest  governor  in  the  history  of 
the  State,  and  he  had  married  only  a  little  before  his 
election — and  beyond  her  was  a  vista  of  other  girls,  all 
with  the  fresh  complexions  and  delicate  features  which 
belong  to  the  women  of  this  State. 

Lucy  Hastings  liked  Guthrie — he  had  written  many 
kind  things  in  the  Times  about  Paul,  and  she  greeted 
him  with  the  warmth  and  feelings  of  her  youth. 

"We  have  missed  you,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  she  said, 
"Haven't  we,  Clarice?" 

Clarice,  otherwise  Miss  Ransome,  was  the  first  girl 
on  her  right,  and,  when  the  governor's  wife  appealed 
to  her  for  confirmation,  Guthrie  looked  curiously  at 
her  to  see  if  it  would  come.  Once  before  he  had  met 
Miss  Ransome — the  daughter  of  a  rich  man  in  the 
metropolis  of  the  State,  she  was  now  on  a  visit  to  her 
friend,  Lucy  Hastings,  the  Governor's  wife.  Tall, 
composed,  and  with  a  face  full  of  strength  and  char- 
acter, she  smiled  slightly. 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  21 

"Why  do  you  appeal  to  me,  Lucy,"  she  asked,  "can't 
you  speak  for  yourself?" 

Guthrie  was  disappointed.  She  seemed  to  him  at 
their  first  meeting  somewhat  cold  and  reserved,  per- 
haps a  little  superior;  but  this  bearing  attracted  his 
mind  unconsciously,  telling  him  that  a  shell  of  some 
kind  usually  enclosed  whatever  was  of  greatest  value. 
It  was  such  a  phase  of  her  character  that  induced  him 
now  to  stay  by  her  as  long  as  she  would  let  him — Mrs. 
Hastings  had  turned  away  to  assist  Mrs.  Dennison 
in  the  reception  of  her  guests  and  there  was  opportunity. 

"You  can  see  here  to-night  what  a  strange  medley 
we  are  in  this  State,  Miss  Ransome,"  he  said. 

She  glanced  over  the  crowded  drawing-room,  and 
the  light  of  interest  appeared  in  her  eyes.  Guthrie 
spoke  the  truth:  many  phases  of  human  character 
were  represented  there.  The  State  presents  sharp 
contrasts.  In  the  East  are  the  untamed  mountains 
which  suddenly  drop  down  in  the  West  into  a  vast  val- 
ley, one  of  the  richest  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world; 
and  the  people  share  the  qualities  of  the  particular  soil 
on  which  they  dwell.  But  here,  in  the  little  capital, 
they  met  on  equal  terms,  politically  and  socially. 
Every  member  of  the  Legislature  was  entitled,  by 
unwritten  law,  to  all  the  hospitality  of  the  little  city. 

"Who  is  the  singular  tall  man  with  the  white  spots 
in  his  hair?"  asked  Miss  Ransome. 

He  of  whom  she  spoke  was  leaning  against  the  wall, 
and  Miss  Ransome  was  not  the  only  one  who  looked 
at  him  with  curiosity.  He  was  over  six  feet  four  inches 
in  height,  as  straight  and  slender  as  a  hickory-tree,  and 
his  long,  coal-black  hair  had  turned  white  in  irregular 
patches  not  larger  than  a  silver  dollar.  His  face  was 


22  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

straight,  long,  and  smoothly  shaven,  his  cheek-bones 
high  like  those  of  an  Indian,  and  his  black  eyes  wary 
and  restless  like  those  of  a  hunter  who  watches  for  hid- 
den danger.  The  tails  of  a  long,  rusty  black  frock- 
coat  fell  below  his  knees. 

Guthrie  followed  Miss  Ransome's  look,  and  he 
smiled  slightly,  although  the  smile  was  sympathetic. 

"That,"  he  replied,  "is  the  Reverend  Zedekiah 
Pike,  of  Sloane  County,  a  State  senator  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  my  very  good  friend,  I  am  glad  to  say.  At 
least  he  preaches  sometimes  in  his  native  mountains, 
although  he  is  not  ordained — a  minister  by  profession 
cannot  be  a  member  of  our  Legislature,  you  know, 
and  he  is  also,  so  I  am  told,  the  chief  champion  of  the 
Pikes  in  their  long  feud  with  the  Dilgers." 

"A  feudist  in  such  a  house  as  this ?  How  strange!" 
exclaimed  Miss  Ransome,  her  eyes  shining  with  inter- 
est. "Perhaps  he  has  a  pistol  with  him  now!" 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  those  long  coat-tails  hide  the 
butt  of  a  seven-shot  self-acting  revolver,"  replied  Guth- 
rie—" but  don't  be  afraid,  Miss  Ransome;  Mr.  Pike 
is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  he  isn't  going  to  shoot  anybody 
here." 

"Will  he  talk  to  women?"  asked  Miss  Ransome. 

"Just  wait  a  minute  and  see,"  replied  Guthrie,  and 
he  crossed  the  room  to  Mr.  Pike. 

The  tall  mountaineer  smiled  when  the  young  cor- 
respondent spoke  to  him — Guthrie  had  printed  a  pic- 
ture of  Mr.  Pike  in  his  newspaper,  and  under  it  had 
appeared  the  flattering  line:  "The  leader  of  the 
mountain  delegation  in  the  Senate." 

"A  lady  from  the  city  wishes  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Pike," 
he  said.  "Come,  I  will  take  you  to  her." 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  23 

The  tall  mountaineer  neither  hesitated  nor  showed 
embarrassment,  but  followed  Guthrie  without  a  word, 
and  was  presented  duly  to  Miss  Ransome.  Clarice, 
who  knew  as  little  of  the  portion  of  her  own  State  from 
which  Mr.  Pike  came  as  she  did  of  Afghanistan,  was 
surprised  to  find  him  not  awkward,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, composed  and  dignified.  He  said  "yes  ma'am" 
and  "no  ma'am"  to  her,  because  he  had  been  taught 
to  say  them  always  to  women;  but  his  manner  was  not 
one  with  which  anybody  could  trifle. 

Clarice  felt  a  pleasant  excitement — educated  abroad 
and  knowing  nothing  of  Mr.  Pike's  mountains,  she 
imagined  much.  She  was  talking  here  in  this  brilliant 
drawing-room  to  a  man  who  not  only  carried  a  revolver 
in  his  hip  pocket,  but  could  shoot  and  had  shot  bullets 
from  it  at  human  beings  who  were  also  firing  bullets 
at  him.  But  his  face  was  singularly  calm  and  lamb- 
like as  he  talked  to  her  with  his  drawl  and  clipped 
accent. 

"I  hear  you  are  the  leader  of  the  mountain  delega- 
tion, Mr.  Pike,"  she  said. 

"That's  just  one  of  Billy  Guthrie's  yarns,  ma'am," 
he  drawled.  "These  newspaper  fellers  have  got  to 
fill  their  columns,  and  I  'low  they  find  it  pow'ful  hard 
sleddin'  sometimes,  ma'am." 

He  put  his  hand  familiarly  and  affectionately  on 
Guthrie's  shoulder  as  he  spoke. 

"But  we  don't  quarrel  with  'em  when  they  stretch 
the  blanket  to  say  nice  things  about  us,  ma'am,"  he 
continued,  "it's  when  they  whack  our  speeches  that 
we  say  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  turnin'  into  license." 

"You  don't  differ  from  other  people,"  said  Miss 
Ransome. 


24  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"No,  ma'am,"  replied  the  mountaineer.  "You  find 
human  natur'  the  same  on  all  kinds  of  soil." 

Miss  Ransome  tried  to  draw  him  out,  to  make  him 
talk  of  his  own  people  and  himself,  but  here  she  struck 
the  obstacle  that  all  must  meet  who  seek  to  explore  as 
she  did.  The  mountaineer  immediately  became  re- 
served and  cold.  He  resented  any  suspicion  of  a  pat- 
ronising kindness  or  curiosity,  however  well-meant, 
and  Guthrie,  who  heard  and  observed  all,  smiled  a 
little.  He  had  seen  much  of  the  mountaineers,  and  he 
had  penetrated  their  shell;  he  knew  their  bitter  anger 
at  the  assumed  and  real  superiority  of  the  lowlands, 
and  he  knew  how  deeply  their  members  in  the  Legis- 
lature felt  it  when  they  were  taunted  with  representing 
the  "pauper"  counties— that  is,  counties  that  paid 
into  the  State  treasury  very  much  less  revenue  than 
they  drew  out  of  it,  which  was  true  of  every  mountain 
county  in  the  State. 

Miss  Ransome  could  not  account  for  the  change  in 
the  mountaineer's  manner,  but  Guthrie  knowing  the 
trouble  quietly  led  the  talk  to  other  subjects,  and  Mr. 
Pike  became  once  more  his  genial  but  dignified  self. 
When  Mrs.  Hastings  took  him  away  presently,  Clarice 
said  to  Guthrie: 

"What  a  singular  man!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Guthrie,  "and  as  proud  as  Lucifer! 
You  will  hear  of  him  before  this  session  is  over.  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  beginning  to  find  your  own  State 
interesting." 

"I  never  said  that  it  wasn't." 

"  No,  but  you  looked  it.  Now  here  is  another  man, 
as  marked  a  character  as  Mr.  Pike;  he  comes  neither 
from  the  mountains  nor  from  our  famous  lowland  val- 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  25 

ley,  but  from  the  hill  country  that  slopes  off  into  the 
southwest.  I  am  speaking  of  Senator  Cobb,  the  big 
man  over  there." 

Mr.  Cobb,  a  member  of  the  State  Senate,  was  not 
quite  so  tall  as  Mr.  Pike,  but  he  was  much  broader  and 
heavier,  and  he,  too,  was  smoothly  shaven,  and  a  pair 
of  mild  and  child-like  blue  eyes  looked  forth  from 
his  ruddy  and  massive  features.  Thick  snow-white 
hair  brushed  straight  back  was  the  crown  of  a  striking 
face. 

"Another  friend  of  mine,  Miss  Ransome,"  said 
Guthrie.  "Senator  Cobb  is  the  connecting  link  be- 
tween the  rich  lowlands  and  the  poor  highlands,  and 
he  is  the  enemy  of  all  trusts  and  monopolies.  He  is 
the  most  absolutely  honest  man  in  both  public  and  pri- 
vate life  that  I  have  ever  known." 
"You  are  always  speaking  of  the  honesty  of  these  men, 
Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Miss  Ransome.  "I  had  the  impres- 
sion that  our  public  life  was  very  corrupt;  I  know  that 
it  is  thought  so  in  society  and  in  Europe." 

Guthrie  laughed. 

"Europe  and  society  in  this  country,"  he  replied, 
"know  very  little  about  our  public  men,  and  they  are 
misled  by  sensational  newspapers  and  that  absolute 
freedom  of  speech  among  us  which  tends  to  exaggera- 
tion. I  think  that  we  have  more  honesty  and  patriot- 
ism than  you  can  find  in  parliamentry  bodies  anywhere 
else  in  the  world." 

Miss  Ransome  was  silent,  but  she  was  not  convinced. 
It  was  almost  her  first  contact  with  the  public  life  of 
her  native  State,  and  she  had  been  taught  to  believe 
that  it  was  corrupt,  largely  because  public  office  was 
not  the  perquisite  of  wealth  and  birth,  and,  naturally, 


26  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

bad  manners  were  associated  in  her  mind  with  bad 

morals. 

But,  when  she  talked  with  Senator  Cobb,  who,  she 
knew,  had  been  abused  much  by  the  opposition,  she 
began  to  allow  for  the  exaggeration  and  the  vague 
charges  so  common  in  American  life.  This  man's 
gaze  was  straight  and  open.  She  had  never  looked 
into  eyes  more  honest.  His  dignity  and  the  courtesy 
that  he  showed  to  women  were  equal  to  those  of  Mr. 
Pike,  but,  obviously,  he  was  of  a  higher  type  than  the 
mountaineer.  He  showed  more  culture,  more  ac- 
quaintance with  the  larger  world,  and  a  greater  grasp 
of  its  problems. 

"Do  you  know  what  feature  of  this  gathering  im- 
presses me  most?"  she  said  somewhat  later  to  Guthrie. 
"No,  and  I  cannot  guess." 

"It  is  the  size  of  the  men.  It  seems  to  me  that  all 
of  them  are  over  six  feet  tall.  I  have  seen  the  French 
Chambers,  and  I  have  seen  the  English  Parliament, 
and,  after  them,  I  seem  to  have  come  here  upon  a  race 
of  giants — physically  at  least." 

Clarice  Ransome  was  deeply  interested — more  so  than 
she  would  have  confessed  to  Guthrie.  She  had  been 
only  a  week  at  the  capital,  and  only  three  months  from 
Europe,  arriving  with  many  prejudices  and  a  view 
which  she  had  begun  to  believe  was  somewhat  narrow. 
It  now  seemed  to  her  that  much  of  the  so-called  culti- 
vation and  refinement  that  she  had  learned  abroad 
had  in  it  the  touch  of  effeminacy,  and  that  was  repellent 
to  her. 

More  than  once  her  glance  strayed  to  Guthrie,  who 
was  now  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  talking  to  Sen- 
ator Cobb,  and  she  did  not  know  whether  she  liked 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  27 

him;  but  she  could  not  help  noticing  his  fine,  eager 
face,  handsome  with  the  glow  of  youth,  and  she  felt, 
too,  that  he  had  communicated  to  her  some  of  his  own 
enthusiasm  and  interest  in  everything  about  him. 

But  Guthrie  was  unconscious  of  her  glances.  He 
drifted  in  a  few  moments  from  Senator  Cobb  to  Jiinmie 
Warfield,  the  youthful  representative  of  one  of  the 
metropolitan  districts.  Warfield  put  his  hand  on 
Guthrie's  shoulder  and  drew  him  to  one  side. 

"Billy,"  he  said.  "I've  heard  a  tale  about  you  and 
Templeton.  I  hope  it  isn't  true." 

Guthrie's  form  stiffened  a  little.  Here  was  the  issue 
again  and  he  would  have  to  face  criticism  by  one  of  his 
best  friends.  But  he  did  not  seek  to  avoid  it. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  that  I  sent  the  Times  an 
account  of  Templeton's  defalcation,"  he  replied.  "  Well 
it's  true." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  do  it,  Billy,"  Warfield 
said.  "I  am  sure  I'd  have  skipped  it  if  I  had  been  in 
your  place." 

"It's  one  of  the  things  that  I'm  in  this  city  for,"  re- 
plied Guthrie,  and  he  walked  away,  not  willing  to  dis- 
cuss it  any  more. 

Warfield,  who  was  a  tender-hearted  man,  ready  at 
any  time  to  sacrifice  himself  for  a  friend,  gazed  after 
him.  "I  couldn't  have  done  it!"  he  murmured. 

Guthrie  knew  Warfield 's  thoughts,  and  they  troubled 
him.  He  believed  that  men  of  the  world  in  constant 
touch  with  public  affairs  ought  to  understand  his  point 
of  view,  and  he  foresaw  hostility  to  himself  because 
they  did  not.  He  was  not  by  nature  of  a  belligerent 
temper;  he  preferred  the  friendship  of  everybody,  and 
he  enjoyed  life  in  the  little  capital.  He  did  not  wish 


28  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

to  be  spoken  of  as  the  man  who  had  exposed  Temple- 
ton's  mother  and  sister  to  disgrace,  but  his  mind  re- 
turned to  his  original  position  as  the  right  one.  He 
wondered  what  Clarice  Ransome  would  think  of  his 
activity,  and  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  trying  to 
guess  her  opinion.  A  woman  would  be  sure  to  take 
the  sentimental  view!  But  when  he  looked  at  her  face, 
and  studied  the  firm  curve  of  her  jaw  and  her  calm, 
strong  eyes,  he  was  not  so  sure;  neither  was  it  a  dis- 
covered fact  that  women  were  softer-hearted  in  such 
matters  than  men. 

Guthrie  left  early,  and  as  he  passed  into  the  vestibule, 
he  found  Senator  Cobb  also  with  his  hat  and  overcoat, 
and  the  sight  of  the  Senator's  broad,  bland  face  gave 
him  an  idea.  Mr.  Cobb's  family  were  not  in  the  capi- 
tal and  he  need  not  hurry,  so  Guthrie  proposed  that 
they  walk  together. 

"Certainly,  my  son,"  replied  the  Senator,  who  called 
all  young  men  whom  he  knew  well  "my  son."  "Our 
ways  are  the  same,  anyhow.  What  a  glorious  night! 
I'm  past  sixty,  but  this  keen  frosty  air  puts  the  blood 
of  thirty  in  my  veins." 

After  that  they  walked  in  silence  for  a  while,  the  old 
Senator  enjoying  the  cold  air  and  the  light  but  fresh 
breeze  from  the  hills.  He  was  a  man  of  immense 
physical  vigour,  one  who  had  been  all  his  life  close  to 
the  soil,  and  Guthrie  noticed  with  a  certain  pleasure 
the  free,  vigorous  swing  of  his  body.  They  were 
near  the  bridge  before  the  Senator,  taking  thought 
of  his  young  companion's  silence,  glanced  keenly 
at  his  face. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Billy?"  he  asked,  putting  his 
hand  kindly  upon  Guthrie's  shoulder. 


ON  COMMON  GROUND  29 

"I've  had  to  do  something  to-day  that  I  found  un- 
pleasant," replied  Guthrie. 

"What  is  uncommon  in  that?" 

"But  this  was  more  so  than  usual,"  replied  Guthrie 
with  a  slight  laugh.  Then  he  told  the  story  of  Temple- 
ton,  his  crime,  and  the  telegram  about  it.  Mr.  Cobb 
listened  with  attention,  and  they  were  almost  across  the 
bridge  before  the  account  was  finished.  Then  Guthrie 
waited  to  hear  what  he  would  say,  but  the  Senator  was 
silent  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"You  were  right  to  do  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "although 
I  should  not  have  done  it  myself." 

He  would  say  no  more,  but  Guthrie  noticed  that  his 
manner  lost  nothing  of  its  warmth  and  friendliness; 
instead,  it  became  more  fatherly. 

"Who  is  the  Miss  Ransome,  to  whom  you  intro- 
duced me?"  he  asked.  "A  rich  man's  daughter,  is 
she  not?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Guthrie,  "and  she  has  just  returned 
to  this  country,  after  being  educated  in  Europe." 

"  I  thought  so,"  was  the  Senator's  brief  comment,  and 
he  added,  after  a  moment's  thought: 

"We  must  Americanise  her." 


CHAPTER  III 

A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE 

GUTHRIE  was  early  in  his  attendance  at  the  next 
morning's  session  of  the  Legislature,  and  but  few  mem- 
bers were  present  when  he  arrived.  It  was  a  cold  day, 
and  the  boughs  of  the  trees  on  the  state-house  lawn 
crackled  in  the  dry,  bitter  wind;  but  inside  all  was  snug 
and  warm.  The  vast  fireplaces,  built  before  the  days 
of  steam-pipes,  were  filled  with  hickory  logs,  which, 
under  the  great  blaze,  kept  up  a  crackling  fire,  like  the 
popping  of  small  shot. 

It  was  his  custom  to  go  first  into  the  House,  where 
his  desk,  like  that  of  the  other  correspondents,  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  Speaker's  dais,  facing  the  members, 
and  he  did  not  depart  from  it  this  morning.  The  mem- 
bers greeted  him  in  pleasant  fashion.  Somehow  they 
always  glided  into  a  great  family  there,  and  the  corre- 
spondents were  looked  upon,  too,  in  a  semidetached 
way  as  members,  with  certain  obligations  due  to  fel- 
lowship in  the  band.  For  these  reasons,  Guthrie  always 
found  it  hard  to  criticise  men  for  whom  he  might  have 
the  greatest  personal  liking,  save  when  they  were 
Republican;  in  this,  a  partisan  State,  it  was  deemed 
not  only  a  right  but  a  duty  to  attack  the  politics  of  the 
other  side:  a  man  praised  by  one  of  the  opposite  party 
would  have  feared  treachery. 

After  the  familiar  words,  Guthrie  took  off  his  over- 
30 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  31 

coat,  and  warmed  his  fingers  by  the  great  open  fire. 
The  wine  of  life  was  full  of  sparkle  that  morning,  and 
he  looked  forward  to  a  day's  good  work.  The  Speaker 
himself,  Mr.  Carton,  a  young  man  not  over  thirty,  en- 
tered at  that  moment,  and,  like  Guthrie,  warmed  his 
hands  before  the  great  blaze. 

"  Do  you  expect  anything  lively  to-day,  Mr.  Carton  ?  " 
asked  Guthrie. 

The  Speaker's  face  clouded  a  little. 

"I'm  afraid  Pursley  is  going  to  call  up  the  'United* 
to-day,"  he  replied.  "He's  loaded  for  a  big  speech, 
and  you  know  that  demagogic  plea  of  his  is  bound  to 
count  with  lots  of  people  up  in  the  City  and  through- 
out the  State,  too." 

Guthrie  glanced  toward  the  eastern  side  of  the  house 
near  the  great  window  where  Pursley  was  already  in  his 
seat.  The  "United"  was  merely  a  short  term  for  the 
United  Electric  Gas,  Power,  Light,  and  Heating  Bill 
with  which  Pursley  had  come  down  from  the  "City" 
— and  "City"  here  meant  the  metropolis  of  the  State, 
which  is  six  or  seven  times  the  size  of  any  other  place 
in  it,  and  therefore  looms  large  in  the  affairs  of  the  Legis- 
lature. 

"Is  there  no  way  to  head  him  off?"  asked  Guthrie. 

"None  whatever,"  replied  the  Speaker;  "the  bill  has 
advanced  so  far  that  he  has  the  right  to  call  it  up,  and 
well — there's  Pursley — he's  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  and 
as  thick-skinned  as  &  rhinoceros:  besides  he  knows 
what  he  wants,  and  that's  always  no  small  advantage." 

Guthrie  glanced  again  at  Pursley,  the  gentleman 
from  the  Third  Legislative  District  in  the  City.  Purs- 
ley's  face  was  bent  over  his  desk  as  he  examined  some 
papers,  but  his  features  were  not  hidden.  They  were 


32  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

heavy  and  coarse,  but  the  small,  close-set  eyes  did  not 
lack  intelligence,  even  though  the  intelligence  in  this 
case  might  be  classified  under  the  unfavourable  name 
of  "cunning,"  and  the  long  jaw  and  thick  neck  de- 
noted obstinacy. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Carton,"  said  Guthrie.       It  will 
be  a  costly  fight  to  you  to  keep  him  down." 

"But  you'll  give  us  all  the  help  you  can,  Billy? 
said  Carton. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course!"  replied  Guthrie. 

Other  members  from  the  "City"  were  entering  and 
taking  their  seats,  and  Guthrie  regarded  them  with  a 
disapproving  eye.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  city  mem- 
bers, with  one  or  two  exceptions,  were  on  a  lower  moral 
and  intellectual  plane  than  those  from  the  country. 
The  country  members,  whether  right  or  wrong  in  their 
ideas,  were  truly  representative  of  the  people  who 
sent  them,  while  those  from  the  city  seemed  to  have 
behind  them  some  organisation  or  agency,  vague  but 

powerful.  M 

"I  wish  I  knew  who  your  best  friends  are,  said 
Guthrie  to  himself  as  he  looked  at  Pursley. 

His  face  brightened  when  Jimmy  Warfield,  who  also 
represented  a  "city"  district,  entered.  Jimmy  was 
exceptional;  no  one  could  look  into  his  open  face  and 
say  that  he  was  not  straightforward  and  honest.  His 
friendships  were  with  the  other  members  rather  than 
with  those  from  the  city.  Warfield  caught  Guthrie's 
eyes,  and  nodded.  Then  he  took  his  seat  two  desks 
away  from  Pursley,  and  began  to  write. 

A  quorum  was  soon  present,  and  the  Speaker  called 
the  House  to  order.  It  is  the  custom  always  to  open 
the  sessions  with  prayer,  and  as  there  is  no  regular 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  33 

chaplain,  a  visiting  minister  or  one  from  the  capital 
officiates.  This  morning  the  minister  did  not  enter 
until  the  last  moment,  and  it  was  the  Bishop.  Guthrie 
looked  up  and  met  his  eye.  It  was  grave  and  reproach- 
ful, and  Guthrie  flushed  a  little,  but  he  returned  the  old 
man's  gaze  steadily. 

All  stood,  and  the  Bishop  prayed  for  the  blessing 
of  God  upon  those  who  were  assembled  there  to  make 
laws  for  the  people.  His  fine  voice  filled  the  great 
room,  and  Guthrie,  looking  at  his  face,  admired,  as  he 
had  admired  so  many  times  before,  the  nobility,  dig- 
nity, and  charity  of  his  features. 

The  Bishop  after  the  prayer  paused  a  few  moments 
by  the  fire  before  going  out  into  the  cold.  The  mails 
from  the  metropolis  bringing  the  morning's  important 
newspapers  always  arrive  at  this  moment,  and  the  boy 
came  in  with  them,  distributing  to  each  member  and 
to  each  correspondent  his  share.  One  of  the  members 
courteously  handed  his  Times  to  the  Bishop. 

"Perhaps  Europe  has  furnished  us  with  a  new  war- 
cloud  in  the  Balkans,"  he  said. 

The  Bishop  smiled,  and  opened  his  newspaper,  but 
he  did  not  look  for  the  "war-cloud  in  the  Balkans." 
His  mind  was  upon  a  thousand-word  despatch  sent 
the  night  before  by  young  Mr.  Guthrie,  whose  action 
he  could  not  approve.  Guthrie,  from  his  desk,  was 
watching  him  closely,  and  he  saw  him  turn  page  after 
page  until  he  came  to  the  last,  and  then  go  back  to  the 
first  page,  scrutinising  them  all  again.  The  Bishop's 
look  of  disapproval  changed  to  one  of  perplexity  and 
then  to  one  of  relief,  though  still  retaining  a  tinge  of 
perplexity.  He  folded  the  paper,  and  handed  it  back 
to  the  obliging  member  with  a  quiet  "thank you;"  then 


34  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

he  walked  over  to  the  correspondent  and  whispered, 
"may  I  see  you  a  moment,  Mr.  Guthrie?" 

Guthrie  arose  at  once,  and  went  with  the  Bishop  to 
the  fireplace,  where  they  were,  in  a  sense,  detached 
from  the  business  of  the  House. 

"I  have  looked  carefully  through  the  Times  for  the 
news  about  young  Templeton,  and  I  do  not  find  it," 
said  the  Bishop.  "What  does  it  mean,  Mr.  Guthrie? 
You  told  me  that  you  sent  the  despatch." 

"I  told  you  the  truth,"  replied  Guthrie,  meeting  the 
Bishop's  eye  unflinchingly. 

"I  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that,"  said  the 
Bishop.  "I  wish  to  know,  not  because  it  is  my  affair, 
but  because  of  our  previous  conversation,  why  it  was 
not  published." 

"I  suppose  they  did  not  think  it  worth  while,"  re- 
plied Guthrie  vaguely. 
The  Bishop  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  think  that  is  the  reason,  Mr.  Guthrie," 
he  said.  "If  you  described  your  managing  editor  to 
me  correctly,  and  I  am  sure  you  did,  he  never  would 
have  left  it  out.  I  think  you  are  the  cause  of  its  omis- 
sion." 

Guthrie    flushed,    and    looked    embarrassed. 
Bishop  waited,  and  Guthrie  saw  that  he  expected  him 
to  speak. 

"When  I  sent  my  despatch,  I  forwarded  another 
telegram  also,"  he  said  reluctantly.     "  It  was  a  personal 
one  to  Mr.  Stetson,  our  editor— there  was  a  chance 
that  he  might  be  in  the  city— asking  him  to  suppress 
my  news,  if  he  could." 
"Well?"  said  the  Bishop. 
"It  seems,"  continued  Guthrie,  "that  he  was  there 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  35 

— and  suppressed  the  news.  Mr.  Stetson  is  the  edi- 
tor, and,  :f  he  wanted  to  do  it,  he  could — he's  the  judge 
of  his  duty  to  the  public." 

There  was  a  new  warmth  in  the  Bishop's  tone  when 
he  spoke  again,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  Guthrie's  shoul- 
der in  a  fatherly  manner. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "last  night  I  thought  you 
hard,  even  cruel,  but  I  change  my  opinion  to-day. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  had  sent  this  personal 
telegram  to  your  editor?" 

Guthrie  hesitated. 

"Because  I  thought  I  ought  to  be  judged  according 
to  my  conception  of  my  duty,"  he  replied  at  length, 
"and  not  by  some  qualifying  action.  And  then — the 
chances  were  at  least  five  to  one  that  Mr.  Stetson  would 
not  be  there." 

The  Bishop  looked  puzzled,  then  smiled. 

"Billy,"  he  said  "you  are  a  most  obstinate  boy. 
But  let  us  be  friends  again." 

"If  you  will  permit  it,"  said  Guthrie. 

The  Bishop  patted  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  in  a  few 
moments  left  the  house.  Guthrie  returned  to  his  desk, 
and  resumed  his  notes.  His  mind  was  easier,  but 
he  feared  that  he  had  shown  what  might  at  least 
be  called  an  amiable  weakness.  He  had  not  looked 
at  the  newspaper,  but  he  had  known  from  the 
expression  on  the  Bishop's  face  as  he  glanced  down 
the  columns  that  the  despatch  was  suppressed.  He 
thought  of  Templeton's  mother  and  sister  —  they 
were  saved  from  grief  and  shame,  but  only 
for  the  present.  The  crash  was  sure  to  come, 
and  would  be  all  the  greater  from  the  delay  and 
he  was  not  convinced  that  he  had  done  right. 


36  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

But  his  thoughts  soon  turned  from  Templeton  to  an- 
other and  vital  question. 

The  session  was  not  an  hour  old  before  he  noticed 
that  it  was  under  the  influence  of  a  suppressed  but  keen 
excitement.  Although  the  House  was  droning  out 
nothing  but  routine  business,  the  members  were  closely 
watching  the  Speaker,  who  apparently  was  unconcerned, 
his  left  hand  lightly  resting  on  the  handle  of  the  gavel, 
and  his  right  hand  turning  the  pages  of  some  letters 
which  he  was  reading,  seemingly  with  more  interest 
than  he  gave  to  the  House. 

Guthrie,  even  if  he  had  not  been  warned  would  have 
known  that  something  was  going  to  happen.  Long 
habit  had  made  him  familiar  with  these  periods  of  ex- 
pectancy in  a  crowd — the  decrease  of  noise,  the  lean- 
ing forward  of  heads  and  the  exchange  of  glances.  He 
looked  across  at  Pursley,  but  the  "Champion  of  the 
people" — as  he  often  called  himself — was  still  bending 
his  heavy  face  over  legal-looking  documents  that  he 
read  attentively. 

Guthrie  concluded  that  Pursley  was  not  yet  ready 
to  spring  his  mine,  and  decided  to  go  into  the  Senate 
for  a  while. 

"If  anything  happens  while  I'm  in  the  other  chamber, 
let  me  know,  won't  you?"  he  said  to  Charlton,  the 
correspondent  who  sat  next  to  him. 

"All  right,"  replied  Charlton,  "but  I  don't  see  why 
you  want  to  waste  time  over  there;  nothing  ever  hap- 
pens in  the  Senate." 

Guthrie  crossed  the  hall  and  joined  the  older  and 
more  dignified  body.  The  change  in  atmosphere  was 
apparent  at  once.  The  House  has  over  a  hundred  mem- 
bers, the  Senate  less  than  forty,  and  the  smaller  num- 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  37 

her  began  to  wear  more  the  aspect  of  a  club.  Besides 
brown  hair  was  predominant  in  the  House,  gray  hair 
here;  men  spoke  quickly  there,  slowly  here.  Old 
Senator  Wells  from  the  mountains  had  taken  his  boots 
off  to  ease  his  aged  feet  and  his  gray  home-knit,  yarn 
socks,  undoubtedly  the  work  of  his  wife,  were  exposed 
for  all  to  see.  There  were  only  eight  Republican  sen- 
ators— too  small  a  number  to  be  troublesome — and 
while  rated  severely  in  speeches  they  were  privately  great 
favourites,  because  they  had  nothing  to  ask  and  noth- 
ing to  expect  from  the  administration  or  the  majority; 
therefore  they  gave  no  trouble. 

Guthrie  took  the  vacant  seat  beside  Senator  Wells. 

"Any  news  here  this  morning,  Mr.  Wells?"  he 
asked. 

"News,  my  boy?"  replied  the  old  senator  with  a 
soundless  little  laugh.  "You  shouldn't  expect  news 
here.  Why  the  Senate's  too  respectable  for  that. 
You  must  go  back  to  the  House  if  you  want  it." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,"  said  Guthrie.  "I  thought 
that  perhaps  the  Republican  minority  was  trying  some 
wicked  scheme  in  here." 

"We  can't,  we  are  surrounded  by  the  enemy,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Wells,  waving  his  hand  at  the  long  array  of 
Democratic  senators. 

They  were  passing  local  bills,  of  interest  only  to  par- 
ticular members,  and  Senator  Cobb  moved  into  the 
vacant  seat  on  the  other  side  of  Mr.  Wells. 

"I  hear  that  there  is  going  to  be  a  stir  in  the  House 
to-day,"  he  said  to  Guthrie. 

"Yes,"  replied  Guthrie,  "Pursley  expects  to  call  up 
the  '  United '  bill  and  to  attack  the  Speaker  because  he 
smothered  it  so  long  in  the  Committee." 


38  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"I'm  sorry  Carton  did  that,"  said  Senator  Cobb. 
"I  like  Carton  and  I  don't  like  Pursley,  but  Pursley 
is  right  in  this  matter;  that  bill  hits  at  the  corporations 
and  it  ought  to  pass." 

Guthrie  said  nothing  because  they  were  old  men 
and  of  official  position,  but  he  could  not  agree  with  Mr 
Cobb. 

"  Carton  is  going  to  find  himself  in  serious  trouble," 
continued  the  senator. 

"That  ought  to  gratify  Pursley,"  commented 
Guthrie. 

He  spoke  with  some  resentment  because  he  liked  and 
admired  Carton,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  see  a  young 
man  with  such  fine  qualities  and  prospects  pulled  down 
by  a  Pursley. 

"How  will  the  Times  stand  on  the  bill?"  asked  Mr. 
Cobb  of  Guthrie. 

"I  think  it  will  oppose  it,"  replied  Guthrie. 

"Your  owner,  of  course,  has  a  lot  of  gas  and  electric 
light  stocks,"  said  Senator  Wells,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest. 

Guthrie  flushed. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  replied.  "I  don't  think 
he  paid  any  attention  to  the  bill  until  I  wrote  to  him  at 
length  about  it,  and  described  what  I  thought  to  be 
its  nature.  I  think  I  can  rightfully  claim  the  credit 
or  discredit  of  the  Times'  opposition." 

"I  am  sorry,  my  son,"  said  Senator  Cobb.  "City 
life  has  influenced  you  without  your  knowing  it.  This 
bill  ought  to  pass." 

Guthrie  said  no  more  on  the  subject  but  listened  to 
the  old  men  as  they  discussed  it.  His  visit  in  the  Sen- 
ate was  really  to  sound  the  senators  in  regard  to  the 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  39 

bill,  and  he  found  that  a  majority  there  as  in  the  House 
were  in  favour  of  it.  He  had  hoped  that,  if  Carton  let 
the  bill  pass  in  the  House,  it  might  be  defeated  in  the 
Senate,  and  thus  the  purpose  would  be  achieved  with- 
out expense  to  the  Speaker;  but  it  required  only  a  few 
minutes  to  tell  him  the  plan  was  useless.  The  Senate 
was  with  the  House,  and  the  battle  would  have  to  be 
fought  out  in  the  latter. 

He  arose  presently  and  went  back  into  the  House 
where  dull  business  was  still  going  on,  but  the  lobbies 
had  filled  up  in  his  absence.  Mrs.  Dennison,  the  gov- 
vernor's  wife,  and  their  friends  were  there.  The 
rumour  that  it  was  going  to  be  an  interesting  session 
of  the  House  had  spread  somehow  in  the  capital,  and 
visitors  could  never  afford  to  miss  anything  of  that 
nature. 

Mrs.  Dennison  sat  with  Miss  Ransome  on  her  right 
and  Miss  Pelham,  a  visitor  from  the  largest  city  of  the 
rich  lowland  region,  on  her  left.  Guthrie  saw  the 
Speaker  glance  at  Miss  Pelham,  then  smile  and  bow 
and  he  felt  sorry  for  Carton  whom  all  the  capital  knew 
to  be  in  love  with  Mary  Pelham.  But  the  Speaker 
was  a  self-made  man  and  yet  poor,  while  Miss  Pelham 
was  the  daughter  of  a  great  land-owner,  and  her  family 
had  been  furnishing  governors  and  United  States  sen- 
ators for  three  generations.  Moreover,  Guthrie  knew 
what  the  young  Speaker  would  soon  have  to  face. 

His  own  glance  passed  soon  from  Miss  Pelham  to 
Miss  Ransome,  to  whom  he  bowed  and  from  whom  he 
received  a  slight  bow  in  return.  But  her  face  was  cold 
and  not  without  a  supercilious  touch.  The  interest 
that  he  had  been  able  to  rouse  the  night  before  in  her 
about  her  native  State,  its  people  and  its  ways,  seemed 


40  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

to  have  passed.  "Doubtless,"  reflected  Guthrie, 
"much  of  this  must  seem  commonplace  and  dull  to 
her."  But  he  made  the  angry  addition:  "She  should 
like  it  because  it  is  our  own  people — and  her's." 

He  folded  up  his  notes  and  joined  the  visitors  in  the 

lobby. 

"We  hear  that  there  is  likely  to  be  a  scene,  Mr.  Guth- 
rie, is  it  true?"  asked  Miss  Ransome. 

"I  should  hardly  call  it  a  'scene/"  replied  Guthrie 

quietly. 

She  flushed  a  little,  then  laughed  lightly. 

"  I  accept  the  correction,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know 
the  right  word.  I  merely  meant  that  something  stir- 
ring is  going  to  happen — so  we  heard.  What  is  it  ?" 

"Do  you  see  the  heavy-faced  man  over  there  near 
the  east  window?"  said  Guthrie.  "Well,  that's  Purs- 
ley;  he's  one  of  the  members  from  the  city  districts. 
He  is  expected  to  make  a  vicious  attack  to-day  on  the 
Speaker." 

He  glanced  from  Miss  Ransome  to  Mary  Pelham, 
when  he  said  "the  Speaker."  Miss  Pelham  moved 
slightly  but  showed  no  other  emotion  and  inquired  in 
an  even  voice: 

"Why  should  he  attack  Mr.  Carton  and  what  has 
Mr.  Carton  to  fear  from  an  attack  by  him?" 

Guthrie  was  attached  to  Carton  and  he  thought  to 
serve  him.  She  must  know  what  was  threatening 
him  and  it  was  best  for  her  to  be  prepared.  He 
might  be  able  to  create  a  prepossession  in  Carton's 
favour. 

"There  is  a  powerful  organisation  behind  this  bill," 
he  replied,  "all  the  more  powerful  because  it  is  vague 
and  in  a  way  secret.  So  far,  Mr.  Carton  has  been  its 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  41 

most  successful  opponent,  and — well — Pursley  will 
leave  the  inference  that  Mr.  Carton  is  interested." 

An  indignant  flush  reddened  the  cheeks  of  Mary  Pel- 
ham. 

"No  one  could  believe  such  a  thing  of  Mr.  Carton!" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Not  I,  certainly,"  replied  Guthrie,  and  then  he 
added  with  perhaps  less  emphasis :  "  nor  you,  nor  any- 
one else  who  knows  the  Speaker,  but  there  is  a  power 
in  reiteration,  an  incessant  implication — implication  of 
the  light,  indirect  kind  that  seems  unintentional.  It 
creates  an  atmosphere,  so  to  speak." 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  that  political  life  here  was  not 
corrupt,  or  at  least  not  more  corrupt  than  it  is  else- 
where!" said  Clarice  Ransome,  looking  at  him  with 
bright,  ironical  eyes. 

"  It  is  not,"  replied  Guthrie  with  conviction.  "There 
is  merely  plainer  speaking  and  more  of  it.  Nor  does 
it  follow  because  a  charge  has  been  made  that  it  is  true." 

"I  cannot  believe  any  ill  of  Mr.  Carton,"  said  Mrs. 
Dennison. 

"A  more  honest  man  never  breathed  the  breath  of 
life,"  said  Guthrie. 

He  glanced  again  at  Mary  Pelham,  but  seemingly 
she  took  no  note  of  his  zealous  defence,  gazing  calmly 
over  the  rows  of  members. 

The  Speaker  from  his  desk  looked  at  her  again,  but 
her  eyes  did  not  meet  his  and  he  turned  back  in  disap- 
pointment to  his  work. 

Guthrie  was  watching  Pursley  who  now  glanced  up 
frequently  from  his  papers  and  always  at  the  Speaker. 
These  movements,  so  Guthrie  knew,  foreboded  action, 
and  the  strained  and  silent  attention  of  the  House 


42  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

showed  that  the  members  knew  it,  too.  At  this  moment 
a  thin,  quiet  man,  his  face  blue  with  close  shaving, 
entered  and  modestly  took  a  seat  in  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  lobby.  It  was  Mr.  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow  who 
was  not  attached  to  the  Legislature  in  any  capacity, 
but  who  was  a  frequent  attendant  upon  its  sessions. 
Guthrie  sought  to  read  Mr.  Harlow's  face  and  to  tell 
what  his  interest  in  pending  events  might  be,  but  the 
result  was  nothing.  Then  he  turned  his  attention  back 
to  the  Speaker. 

He  admired  Carton's  coolness  and  courage.  The 
Speaker  knew  perfectly  well  that  an  attack  upon  him- 
self was  coming  and  that  it  would  be  of  a  most  vicious 
nature,  but  no  sign  of  uneasiness  showed  in  his  manner. 
His  voice  as  he  made  his  rulings  was  as  steady  and  full 
as  ever,  and  the  hand  that  wielded  the  gavel  never  trem- 
bled. 

Pursley  glanced  once  toward  the  lobby,  and  Guthrie 
thought  he  saw  a  faint  look  like  a  signal  pass  between 
him  and  the  quiet  Harlow,  but  he  was  not  sure.  Then 
Pursley  half  arose  as  if  to  make  a  motion  and  called 
"Mr.  Speaker,"  but  Carton's  eye  passed  on  and  caught 
another  member  who  had  also  called  "Mr.  Speaker." 
"The  gentleman  from  Mary  County,"  said  Carton, 
and  the  "gentleman  from  Mary  County"  was  not 
Pursley,  but  Mr.  Harman,  an  amiable  and  long-winded 
member  who  was  devoted  to  a  bill  regulating  the  liquor 
traffic,  now  among  those  before  the  House.  Harman 
would  speak  two  hours,  nothing  could  check  the  even, 
monotonous  flow  of  his  words,  and  Pursley  sank  back 
with  a  smothered  but  angry  exclamation  of  disgust. 
But  Guthrie  looking  at  Mr.  Harlow  could  not  see  his 
face  change  by  a  single  quiver. 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  43 

Mr.  Harman  spoke  without  effort  and  the  members 
turned  to  the  reading  of  newspapers  or  the  writing  of 
letters.  There  was  all  the  rustle  and  noise  of  an  ordi- 
nary session.  It  was  not  necessary  to  pay  close  attention 
to  the  gentleman  from  Mary  County  who,  absorbed  in 
his  own  words,  would  not  notice,  and  would  not  be 
offended  if  he  did.  Various  members  also  drifted  to 
the  lobbies  where  they  talked  to  the  ladies  and  Guthrie 
went  with  them. 

"You  told  me  something  interesting  was  going  to 
happen,"  said  Miss  Ransome  to  him.  "Instead  I  am 
only  listening  to  a  very  dull  speech." 

"A  speech  of  any  other  kind  is  an  exception,"  replied 
Guthrie  smiling,  though  secretly  he  was  resentful. 
"Mr.  Pursley  missed  his  chance  and  we  shall  have  to 
wait.  Nothing  can  happen  now  until  the  afternoon 
session,  because  Mr.  Harman  will  certainly  talk  us  into 
luncheon.  But  it  gives  a  good  chance  for  conversation." 
Guthrie  was  right,  because  when  Mr.  Harman  came  to 
the  end  all  were  tired  and  hungry,  and  the  House 
adjourned  until  2  p.  M.,  when  the  lobbies  were  again 
filled  with  visitors,  hoping  to  witness  incidents  of  spirit 
and  edge.  Mrs.  Dennison,  Mrs.  Hastings  and  their 
friends  occupied  the  same  position  in  the  group,  and 
the  bright  tints  of  their  dresses  made  a  vivid  splash  of 
colour  against  the  dark  background  of  the  House. 
And  now  Mr.  Pursley  was  too  late  a  second  time. 
Another  member  secured  the  floor,  was  recognised  and 
began  to  discuss  a  bill  relating  to  the  codification  of  the 
State's  laws.  "A  duller  subject  than  ever!"  said  Miss 
Ransome,  and  Miss  Pelham  agreed  with  her. 

Guthrie  watched  the  Speaker  closely,  and  seeing  a 
little  defiant  gleam  in  his  eyes,  he  surmised  that  Mr. 


44  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Carton  was  resolved  to  give  his  enemies  as  much 
trouble  as  possible.  The  bill  must  come  up  sooner 
or  later,  its  consideration  could  not  be  postponed 
forever,  but  these  men  should  know  that  the  Speaker 
was  armed  and  ready  to  give  them  trouble,  since 
they  chose  to  do  as  much  for  him.  At  least,  Guthrie 
so  construed  Mr.  Carton's  look  and  he  gave  him 
his  full  sympathy. 

Mr.  Harlow  was  also  in  the  lobby  as  usual.     He  occu- 
pied a  seat  at  the  rear.     Mr.  Harlow  was  a  modest  man, 
smooth  of  speech,  never  pushing  hard  against  obstacles 
and  content  with  an  obscure  place;  but  here,  owing  to 
the  upward  slope  of  the  lobby,  the  last  row  of  seats  fur- 
nished the  best  view  of  the  House,  and  there  was  not  a 
member  whom  he  could  not  see  clearly. 

Mr.  Harlow  seemed  to  know  by  instinct  or  acute 
observation,  which  is  akin  to  it,  when  the  member  who 
had  the  floor  was  going  to  finish,  and  he  caught  Mr. 
Pursley's  eye;  the  same  faint  almost  imperceptible 
signal  passed  between  them,  and  Mr.  Pursley  was  on 
his  feet  just  as  the  other  man  concluded,  calling:  "Mr. 
Speaker!  Speaker!"  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
recognise  him,  and  Mr.  Carton  did  it  easily  and  grace- 
fully. 

Mr.  Pursley  standing  solidly  upon  his  feet  swept  the 
House  with  a  long  semicircular  smile  of  triumph,  and  a 
thrill  ran  through  members  and  lobby  alike.  The  ex- 
pected moment  had  come  and  the  young  Speaker  was 
about  to  go  under  fire.  All  were  anxious  to  see  how  he 
would  take  it,  and  some  hoped  that  he  would  take  it  ill. 
There  were  men  who  resented  his  superiority,  his  rapid 
advance  and  his  personal  aloofness  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned,  because  the  young  Speaker  was  in  a  sense 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  45 

fastidious  and  did  not  choose  the  commonplace  or  the 
splenetic  for  associates. 

A  dozen  senators,  hearing  that  Pursley  had  got  the 
floor,  abandoned  their  own  chamber  and  came  in  to 
hear  the  attack.  Guthrie  saw  Mr.  Cobb  and  Mr. 
Wells  sitting  together. 

Mr.  Pursley  began  in  a  voice  which  was  not  without  a 
certain  power  and  effect,  and  he  showed  that  he  did  not 
lack  courage  and  resolution  as  he  faced  the  House 
boldly. 

He  said  that  his  had  been  the  honour  to  present  a  bill 
which  would  be  of  vast  benefit  to  the  great  city  from 
which  he  came,  and  by  example  to  the  public  every- 
where It  was  a  bill  that  struck  directly  at  three  mo- 
nopolies, three  powerful  corporations  which  were 
oppressing  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  people. 

Guthrie  glanced  at  Mr.  Cobb  and  Mr.  Wells,  and  saw 
approving  looks  on  their  faces.  Both  took  fire  readily 
at  the  sound  of  the  words  "corporations"  and  "monop- 
olies." 

Mr.  Pursley  continued.  This  bill,  he  said,  had 
met  with  universal  favour,  had  appealed  strongly  to  the 
people  of  his  city,  but  some  malign  influence  had  been 
directed  against  it.  It  had  been  referred  to  a  committee 
and  this  committee  had  taken  a  very  long  time  in  acting 
upon  it  and  reporting  it.  Even  now  it  had  been  almost 
impossible  for  him  to  get  it  before  the  House  and  secure 
its  free  discussion." 

Here  Mr.  Pursley  paused  and  again  that  thrill  of 

expectation  ran  through  the  House.     He  was  about  to 

come  to  names,  and  names  are  always  so  much  more 

interesting  than  abstractions. 

"I  have  worked  hard  for  this  bill,"  continued  Mr. 


46  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Pursley,  "because  I  know  it  is  in  the  interest  of  the 
common  people;  but  that  malign  influence  of  which  I 
spoke  has  constantly  opposed  me,  and  until  the  present 
with  success.  It  is  with  reluctance  that  I  make  charges; 
I  do  not  wish  to  asperse  the  motives  of  anybody;  far  be  it 
from  me  to  attack  a  reputation,  but  every  member  of 
this  House  knows  that  there  is  only  one  person  who  can 
hold  back  a  bill — who  can,  from  term  to  term,  prevent 
its  consideration,  and  that  man  is  the  Speaker.  Now 
I  ask  why?" 

Again  he  paused  and  swept  the  house  with  his  long, 
semicircular  glance.     A  dark  flush  crept  over  the  face 
of  the  Speaker,  but  he  made  no  other  sign. 
<•  Up  sprang  Jimmy  Warfield,  calling:  "Mr.  Speaker!" 

"The  gentleman  from  Hamilton  County,"  said  Mr. 
Carton  in  an  unmoved  voice. 

"As  a  member  of  this  honourable  body,"  said  Mr. 
Warfield,  "I  demand  a  clear  and  explicit  statement. 
The  gentleman  from  the  Third  District  has  stated  that 
an  undue  influence  was  brought  to  bear  against  his  bill 
and  he  has  mentioned  names.  Now,  does  he  charge 
the  Speaker  of  this  House  with  a  personal  interest  in  the 
defeat  of  his  bill?" 

A  buzz  ran  through  the  House  and  the  lobby.  Mr. 
Warfield  stood  expectant,  his  good-humoured  face 
for  once  frowning,  and  his  chin  thrust  forward  like 
the  curve  of  an  eagle's  beak.  But  Mr.  Pursley  was 
not  daunted. 

"  I  state  facts,"  he  said,  "  and  I  leave  it  to  the  members 
of  this  house  to  draw  whatever  inferences  they  choose. 
This  bill  was  introduced  nearly  a  month  ago;  every  one 
here  knows  that,  and  you  know,  too,  with  what  diffi- 
culty I  have  been  able  to  call  it  up  to-day.  It  has  been 


A  SESSION  OF  THE  HOUSE  47 

said,  "hew  to  the  line,  let  the  chips  fall  where  they  may/ 
and,  gentlemen,  I  am  trying  to  hew  to  the  line!" 

He  paused  again,  and  once  more  looked  about  the 
House  to  find  many  an  approving  face.  The  country 
members  who  were  in  a  great  majority,  dwelt  in  con- 
stant fear  of  corporations  and  monopolies,  and  to  men- 
tion such  things  was  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  calling 
them  to  war.  And  no  doubt,  too,  Mr.  Carton  had  im- 
peded the  passage  of  the  bill.  His  best  friends  could  not 
disprove  it. 

Out  in  the  lobby  Mary  Pelham  was  saying  impa- 
tiently to  Clarice  Ransome: 

"Why  does  not  Mr.  Carton  deny  it,  at  once?  I 
should  think  that  a  man  would  not  be  able  to  restrain 
his  indignation  at  such  a  charge!" 

Clarice  recognised  the  anger  in  Miss  Pelham 's  voice, 
and  she  knew  why  it  was  there  and  against  whom  it  was 
directed.  Suddenly  she  felt  a  new  interest  and  a  new 
sympathy  in  the  life  outspread  before  her. 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  his  dignity  forbids,"  she 
replied,  "or  may  be  the  rules  require  that  he  shall  first 
hear  formal  charges.  But  I  know  I  do  not  like  the 
looks  of  that  Mr.  Pursley." 

Miss  Pelham  said  nothing  more  but  gazed  straight  at 
the  Speaker,  and  by  and  by  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers. 
His  was  a  glance  of  proud  defiance;  he  seemed  to  ask 
of  her  neither  mercy  nor  forgiveness,  he  seemed  to  say 
he  was  choosing  the  right  and  if  she  could  not  believe 
him,  well — he  must  endure  it  as  best  he  could.  Guthrie 
saw  it  all,  and  his  heart  thrilled  with  pride  in  his  friend 
whom  he  knew  to  be  a  fighter  as  resolute  as  he  was 
honest.  Then  Jimmy  Warfield,  the  champion  of  the 
Speaker,  arose  again.  He  said  that  he,  too,  like  the 


48  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

gentleman  from  the  Third,  came  from  the  metropolis; 
he  had  studied  this  bill,  and  if  the  Speaker  opposed  the 
measure,  it  was  because  it  was  a  bad  bill  and  ought  not 
to  pass;  of  that  he  was  convinced,  and  their  chief  was 
merely  trying  to  defeat  an  organised  attempt  to  plun- 
der. 

A  hum  of  approval  arose,  but  it  was  from  the  minority. 
The  majority  sat  in  cold  silence  and  Senator  Cobb 
frowned  visibly.  A  member  suggested  that  in  view  of 
the  gravity  of  the  charge  a  committee  be  formed  to 
investigate,  and  the  motion  being  carried  without  oppo- 
sition, the  Speaker  said  that  inasmuch  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, the  chair  must  be  taken  temporarily  by  some 
one  else  who  should  name  the  committee. 

Mr.  Harman  was  put  in  the  chair  and  he  at  once 
selected  a  committee  of  five  non-partisan  men. 

Then  the  House  adjourned  amid  much  suppressed 
excitement,  and  members  and  visitors  passed  out 
together. 


CHAPTER  IV 
AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN 

GUTHRIE,  like  the  members,  felt  excitement,  and  a 
busy  afternoon  and  evening  lay  before  him.  In  open 
session  of  the  House  a  charge  of  gravest  import  had 
been  made  against  the  Speaker,  and  it  would  be  news 
of  keen  interest  to  every  man — even  in  the  remotest 
country  district.  This  is  a  State  that  takes  its  politics 
as  the  great  business  of  life,  and  so  conspicuous  a  figure 
as  the  Speaker  of  the  House  could  not  be  assailed  with- 
out arousing  discussion  and  feeling  at  half  a  million 
hearths.  There  would  be  an  important  despatch  for 
him  to  write,  and  it  would  be  a  difficult  matter  to  write 
it  correctly. 

He  wished  to  follow  Mrs.  Dennison's  party  out 
of  the  building,  and  he  saw  Clarice  Ransome  linger  a 
moment  and  glance  at  him,  as  if  half-suggesting  that  he 
come.  Almost  any  other  man  would  have  gone,  but 
the  sense  of  duty  was  so  strong  in  Guthrie  that  he  stayed. 
He  looked  after  them  regretfully  as  they  went  down  the 
circular  stairway,  and  then  turned  aside  to  a  little  room 
that  opened  from  the  outer  hall.  This  was  a  private 
apartment,  set  aside  for  the  Speaker,  and  the  door  was 
closed;  but  Guthrie,  with  the  freedom  of  long  habit 
and  uniform  welcome,  pushed  it  open  and  went  in 
unannounced. 

The  Speaker  was  sitting  on  a  little  sofa  by  the  window, 
49 


50  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

his  eyes  downcast,  his  face  gloomy,  his  mind  yielding 
to  a  momentary  depression  very  rare  in  him.  Jimmy 
Warfield  was  in  the  room  trying  to  cheer  his  friend,  and 
Jimmy's  presence  was  always  a  tonic,  whether  or  not 
his  words  were  logical.  Two  others  were  there,  Henry 
Raynor,  the  Clerk  of  the  House,  and  Allen,  a  country 
member. 

"It's  a  scandalous  attack,  but  it's  just  hot  air!"  War- 
field  was  saying.  "It's  so  preposterous  that  it  defeats 
itself!  This  State  knows  you  too  well,  Phil,  to  believe 
such  a  thing  of  you." 

But  Guthrie  knew  that  Carton  was  thinking  not  alone 
of  his  political  reputation  and  future,  but  also  of  some- 
thing else,  perhaps  dearer,  that  was  bound  up  with  this 
issue. 

"There's  a  lot  back  of  it,"  said  Raynor,  the  Clerk,  a 
man  with  a  strong,  thin  face.  "They're  hitting  at  you 
over  Pursley's  shoulders,  Carton." 

Carton  nodded  and  when  he  saw  Guthrie  he  assumed 
a  more  cheerful  look. 

"Well,  Billy,"  he  asked,  "what  are  you  going  to  write 
about  it  for  the  Times?  I  suppose  you  will  have  to 
spread  the  story  all  over  the  State  ?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  Guthrie.  "That  is  one  of  the 
burdens  of  the  press.  We  have  to  write  about  our 
friends  as  well  as  our  enemies,  but  you  know  well 
enough,  Mr.  Carton,  that  any  reader  of  my  despatch 
will  see  that  the  writer  of  it  considers  this  charge  ridi- 
culous." 

"That's  so,  Billy,"  replied  the  Speaker  warmly. 
"You  are  a  true  friend  and  in  advance  I  want  to  thank 
you.  If  only  all  were  like  you!" 

Other  correspondents  were  now  coming  in,  and  the 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  51 

Speaker  was  bound  to  say  something  for  the  press. 
Every  newspaper  in  the  State  would  want  to  print  his 
statement  in  the  morning.  Now  Mr.  Carton  began  to 
show  indignation.  The  depression  passed  and  the 
fighting  spirit  was  aroused. 

"You  can  quote  me  to  the  people  as  denouncing  the 
statement  in  all  the  terms  I  know,"  he  said.  "It  is 
made  out  of  whole  cloth.  It  is  true  that  I  have  held  the 
bill  back,  but  it  is  because  I  believed  it  a  bad  bill,  a  bill 
in  the  interest  of  its  incorporators,  and  not  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  public.  It  was  my  duty  to  the  city  and  the 
State  to  hold  it  back.  Any  one  who  says  or  intimates 
that  I  have  a  personal  interest  in  beating  the  bill,  tells 
an  unmitigated  falsehood.  You  can  elaborate  on  that 
as  much  as  you  please." 

"  I  wish  he  hadn't  put  in  that  admission  about  holding 
the  bill  back!"  whispered  one  of  the  correspondents  to 
Guthrie.  "It  looks  bad." 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,"  replied  Guthrie,  but  in  his 
heart  he  knew  the  assertion  to  be  true.  Carton's  action 
could  be  misrepresented  readily,  and  in  cold  print  at  a 
distance  it  would  look  much  worse  than  in  the  House 
where  such  action  was  understood. 

The  little  room  was  now  crowded  with  members  who 
had  come,  some  to  hear  Carton's  statement  to  the  press, 
some  to  offer  him  their  personal  sympathy  and  support, 
while  one  or  two  came  to  rejoice  in  his  trouble. 

Guthrie  left  quietly,  because  there  was  one  person 
whom  he  wished  to  see  before  the  departure  of  the  after- 
noon train  for  the  metropolis,  due  now  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  He  was  sure  that  his  man  would  go  on  that 
train  and  he  hastened  to  the  station.  To  the  eastward 
the  engine  was  whistling  and  a  light  cloud  of  smoke 


52  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

rose  over  the  hills.  In  a  secluded  corner  of  the  station 
Guthrie  saw  Mr.  Harlow,  a  small  valise  in  his  hand 
and  a  meditative  but  guileless  look  on  his  face.  Guthrie 
approached  him,  and  Mr.  Harlow  looked  up. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  city  too,  Mr.  Guthrie?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  replied  Guthrie,  "I  came  here  to  interview 
you,  Mr.  Harlow." 

"To  interview  me!  Why,  I  am  a  private  citizen 
dealing  only  with  private  citizens.  How  can  any  view 
of  mine  interest  the  public?  Truly,  Mr.  Guthrie,  the 
press  is  becoming  wonderful  in  its  enterprise!" 

The  mild  face  of  Mr.  Harlow  expressed  much  sur- 
prise. 

"  It  is  reported  that  you  are  interested  in  the  '  United/  " 
said  Guthrie,  "and  it  is  reported,  too,  that  you,  or  those 
behind  you,  have  armed  Pursley  for  the  attack  upon  the 
Speaker,  who  is  the  chief  obstacle  to  the  passage  of  the 
bill.  Are  you  willing  to  say  anything  on  the  subject 
for  publication?" 

The  guileless  eyes  of  Mr.  Harlow  opened  wider. 

"Dear  me,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "you  take  me  off 
my  feet!  I  scarcely  know  Mr.  Pursley,  who,  by  the  way 
seems  an  honest  and  able  man,  a  worthy  representa- 
tive of  our  city.  Really,  I  am  at  a  loss;  how  can  I  say 
anything  on  a  subject  with  which  I  am  totally  unfa- 
miliar?" 

"Then  I  shall  state  in  my  despatch  that  after  Purs- 
ley's  attack  you  left  the  capital  at  once,  refusing  to  be 
interviewed?" 

"Why  speak  of  me  at  all  ?"  said  Mr.  Harlow  with  an 
aggrieved  air.  "Cannot  a  private  citizen  come  here 
and  look  on  for  a  day  or  two  to  see  Ijov  they  make  the 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  53 

laws  under  which  he  lives  without  having  his  name  put 
in  the  papers  in  all  sorts  of  irrelevant  ways?" 

At  that  moment  the  train  with  a  rush  and  a  roar 
pulled  into  the  station,  and  Mr.  Harlow  with  a  parting 
smile  pulled  himself  aboard. 

"  He'll  go  down  to  the  city  and  hide  where  our  repor- 
ters can't  find  him,  but  at  any  rate  I  can  say  that  he 
refused  to  talk,"  was  Guthrie's  thought. 

Then  he  strolled  back  toward  the  centre  of  the  town, 
busy  in  thought.  He  would  wait  until  the  last  moment 
before  sending  his  despatches  in  order  to  make  them  as 
complete  and  informing  as  possible,  and  the  state  of 
public  opinion  at  the  capital  was  not  the  least  of  the 
things  that  he  was  expected  to  describe. 

He  went  to  the  large  hotel  in  the  heart  of  the  city 
through  which,  as  has  been  said,  all  the  life  of  the  little 
capital  flows.  In  its  ample  offices  and  halls  members 
of  the  Legislature  and  visitors  meet  in  easy  informality 
and  talk,  and  here  many  an  important  measure  is  born 
or  dies.  It  is  an  unorganised  club  and  it  has  its  con- 
veniences, because  one  who  does  not  wish  to  say  any- 
thing or  commit  himself  upon  current  events  can  stay 
away  until  the  first  desire  for  expression  has  passed. 

Guthrie  found  the  lobbies  of  the  hotel  crowded  with 
people  and  humming  with  talk  the  burden  of  which  was 
always  Carton.  Already  men  were  taking  sides. 
Jimmy  Warfield,  fiercely  declaiming,  was  surrounded 
by  a  group.  He  charged  that  the  attack  upon  Carton 
was  made  for  a  purpose  by  the  people  interested  in  this 
bill,  whoever  they  were,  and  for  that  reason  the  assault 
was  so  vicious.  In  another  corner  Pursley  also  de- 
claimed to  his  followers.  He  had  not  wished  to  impugn 
the  Speaker's  mo^ves,  he  disliked  aspersing  the  actions 


54  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

of  a  man  who  had  risen  to  the  honourable  position  of 
Speaker,  but  Carton  had  forced  him  to  play  his  hand. 
There  was  the  bill,  there  was  Carton's  obvious  inter- 
ference with  it,  and  people  were  compelled  to  draw  their 
own  conclusions.  In  another  corner  Zedekiah  Pike, 
taller,  thinner,  and  stronger  of  feature  than  ever,  talked 
in  a  low  voice  to  half  a  dozen  mountain  members  who 
hung  closely  about  him,  plainly  intimating  to  all  who 
might  come  that  they  did  not  wish  any  one  else  to  enter 
their  circle  or  hear  what  was  being  said  by  their  leader. 

And  from  group  to  group  flitted  the  correspondents, 
eager  to  get  opinions  from  the  more  prominent  men  or 
to  determine  the  temperature  of  the  Legislature  by 
means  of  this  infallible  thermometer,  and  Guthrie 
devoted  some  attention  to  the  same  subject.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  correspondents;  those  who  collect  news 
and  those  who  absorb  it.  Guthrie  fell  within  the  latter 
class,  which  is  by  far  the  abler  of  the  two,  because  the 
former  are  machine-made,  while  the  latter  are  born, 
and  know  instinctively  just  what  things  are  worth. 
Moreover,  they  do  not  go  to  people  for  news,  because 
people  come  to  them  with  it  and  gladly  tell  it. 

So  Guthrie  wandered  about  in  the  lobbies,  apparently 
seeking  nothing  but  finding  much.  He  confirmed  here 
his  first  impression  that  the  bulk  of  sentiment 
was  against  Carton.  The  Speaker  had  been  too 
fastidious  in  his  tastes  and  companionships. 
He  had  offended  inferior  men  by  a  lack  of 
consideration  for  their  opinions,  and  in  this 
Carton  had  not  been  tactful,  because  he  ignored  a 
universal  trait  of  the  human  race  —  the  jealousy 
with  which  the  commonplace  regard  those  of 
higher  talents.  "I  wish  that  he  wasn't  quite  so 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  55 

stiff!"  was  Outline's  thought,  because  he  truly  liked 
and  admired  Carton. 

Moreover,  there  was  a  real  and  honest  feeling  in  the 
Legislature  against  monopolies,  and  it  seemed  to  the 
majority  of  the  members  that  Carton's  action  had  been 
in  favour  of  them,  although  they  had  been  loath  to 
believe  him  dishonest. 

It  made  Guthrie  sick  at  heart.  A  great  fight,  pushed 
by  secret  but  powerful  agencies,  was  to  be  made  on 
Carton,  and  in  its  train  would  come  consequences, 
innumerable  and  ruinous.  It  would  create  a  split  in 
the  party — it  was  bound  to  do  so,  and  Guthrie's  mind 
revolted  at  the  thought.  He  was  a  Democrat  by  long 
inheritance,  association,  training  and  belief,  and  never 
could  be  otherwise.  The  State  was  regularly  Demo- 
cratic, too,  but  lately  the  majority  had  been  narrowing 
and  ten  thousand  votes  shifted  the  other  way  would 
give  the  victory  to  the  Republicans. 

It  grieved  Guthrie  to  think  of  such  a  change,  but  a 
long  fight  over  Carton  with  its  resulting  bitterness  was 
almost  sure  to  cause  it. 

He  met  Wharton,  the  correspondent  of  the  chief 
Republican  daily  of  the  State — and  in  this  State  a  legis- 
lative correspondent  is  supposed  to  be  not  only  a  nar- 
rator of  news,  but  in  an  indirect  way  an  agent  of  his 
party,  too.  Wharton  was  exultant,  and  he  clapped  his 
hand  cheerfully  upon  Guthrie's  shoulder. 

"Billy,  old  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  Democrats 
are  up  against  it  this  term.  If  you  come  out  of  this 
fight  on  Carton  with  all  your  feathers  left,  then  I'm 
mightily  mistaken!" 

"I'm  afraid  you're  right,  Wharton,"  replied  Guthrie 
frankly.  "What  are  you  going  to  write  about  it?" 


56  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Five  thousand  words  at  least.  Why,  this  is  a  sen- 
sation sure  enough — a  corker!" 

"I  mean  what,  not  how  much." 

"Oh,  well!  As  for  that — I'm  a  Republican,  you 
know,  Billy,  but  I  don't  have  to  do  any  colouring  or 
altering  of  the  perspective  here.  I  merely  state  the 
charges  and  the  facts  and  the  people  draw  their  own 
conclusions.  I  like  Carton  and  I'm  confoundedly  sorry 
for  him,  but  news  is  news  and  politics  is  politics." 

"I  don't  believe  that  Carton  has  any  interest  either 
directly  or  indirectly  in  defeating  that  bill,"  said  Guthrie 
defiantly. 

"  Neither  do  I,"  said  Wharton, "  but  it  will  be  deucedly 
hard  to  prove  it  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  great  American 
public,  which  is  ready  to  believe  in  the  wickedness  of 
any  man  in  office." 

Guthrie  lived  in  the  same  hotel  in  a  quiet  room  on 
the  third  floor,  and  feeling  that  he  had  learned  enough 
for  his  purpose,  he  retired  to  it  and  wrote  carefully  for 
three  hours.  On  this  occasion  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
"colouring"  his  own  despatches,  that  is,  to  indicate 
throughout  them  his  belief  in  Carton's  innocence,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  incline  the  reader  to  the  same  point  of 
view.  He  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  do  this  because  he 
did  not  think  corruption  in  Carton  possible. 

But  he  sighed  when  he  read  over  the  despatch.  It  did 
not  look  so  well  for  Carton,  after  all.  He  filed  it  at  the 
telegraph  office,  marking  at  the  end :  "  More  to  come," 
which  meant  that  he  would  add  something,  later  in  the 
night.  Then  he  put  on  his  evening  clothes  and  went 
forth  again.  His  destination  was  the  governor's  house, 
a  low,  roomy  old  building  erected  early  in  the  history 
of  the  State  for  the  use  of  its  governors  and  full  of  com- 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  57 

fort  and  comfortable  associations.  Here  the  young 
governor  and  his  wife,  yet  younger,  had  gathered  around 
them  a  brilliant  little  group  for  the  winter.  The  session 
of  the  Legislature  is  always  the  special  season  in  the 
capital,  and  this  year,  owing  to  the  youth  of  the  gov- 
ernor and  his  wife,  it  had  a  finer  social  bloom  than  any 
other  in  many  years.  The  house  was  full  of  guests  and 
Clarice  Ransome  and  Mary  Pelham  were  among  them. 

Guthrie  paused  before  the  governor's  house  with  his 
hand  upon  the  gate.  He  was  always  welcome  there, 
and  he  knew  it.  And  he  liked  the  old  house,  too,  for 
its  own  sake.  It  seemed  to  him  with  its  dark  woods, 
its  wide  halls  and  its  lack  of  ostentation,  to  be  so  full 
of  democratic  dignity  and  simplicity.  There  was  no 
attendant  on  guard,  no  livery,  but  any  one  who  chose 
might  ring  the  bell  at  the  governor's  door  and  he  would 
be  answered  according  to  his  mission. 

Lights  were  shining  from  all  the  windows  and  fell  in 
bars  of  silver  across  the  grass  which  the  touch  of  winter 
had  turned  brown  on  the  lawn.  Guthrie  thought  he 
heard  the  faint  sound  of  voices  within.  He  opened  the 
gate,  entered  the  grounds  and  rang  at  the  door. 

Paul  Hastings,  the  governor,  met  him  in  the  hall, 
after  he  had  been  shown  in  by  the  servant. 

"  Billy,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you,  but  I  was  thinking  it  might  be  somebody  else." 

"Carton?"  said  Guthrie,  intuitively. 

"Yes,  Carton.  This  is  an  awfully  unpleasant  thing, 
and  I've  been  trying  to  guess  whether  he'd  shut  him- 
self up  for  a  few  days  or  boldly  face  the  public  at  once." 

Guthrie  glanced  at  the  governor's  face,  but  he  read 
nothing  there.  If  Carton  were  a  guest  in  that  house, 
then  people  might  attack  the  governor,  too,  as  the 


58'  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Speaker's  friend,  and  the  governor  himself,  in  the 
course  of  time,  would  want  more  from  the  public. 
Could  Paul  Hastings  be  moved  by  any  such  selfish  or 
timid  impulse  and  hope  that  Carton  would  stay  away? 
Guthrie  could  not  tell  and  he  replied: 

"I  think  Carton  will  face  the  public  boldly— even 
defiantly.     You  know  his  nature,  governor." 

"That's  so,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  "but  come  in;  the 
ladies  are  here." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  whence  floated 
the  sound  of  voices.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  apart- 
ment, very  large,  all  hi  dark  oak  and  at  one  end  in  a 
vast  fireplace  burned  a  great  heap  of  hickory  logs.  It 
was  this  rather  than  the  gas-lights  in  the  chandelier  that 
illuminated  the  room,  the  sparkling  flames  casting  a 
crimson  glow  over  the  floor  and  the  walls. 

It  was  all  wonderfully  cheerful  and  within  Guthrie 
saw  Mrs.  Hastings,  Mrs.  Dennison,  Miss  Ransome, 
Miss  Pelham,  Senator  Cobb,  Jimmy  Warfield  and  half 
a  dozen  others.  They  made  him  welcome  both  for  his 
own  sake,  and  because  he  was  known  socially  as  one  of 
the  governor's  group. 

Lucy  Hastings  came  forward  to  meet  him.  She  was 
a  woman  of  gentle  manner,  who  rarely  said  an  unpleas- 
ant thing,  never  mistaking  cutting  words  for  wit;  con- 
sequently she  made  few  enemies  for  herself— and  none 
for  her  husband,  which  was  important,  although  she 
did  not  think  of  it. 

Then  Guthrie  saw  that  she  welcomed  him  with 
genuine  pleasure  and  it  made  him  feel  at  home,  all  the 
more  so  because  Clarice  Ransome  glanced  at  him  rather 
coldly— he  had  not  followed  from  the  Capitol  when  she 
half  invited  him  to  come.  Yet  he  wished  to  make 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  59 

apologies  and  presently,  when  he  was  with  Miss  Ran- 
some,  he  said  incidentally: 

"It  has  been  a  busy  day  for  me,  but  not  of  the  kind  I 
like.  We  correspondents  always  want  news,  but  I  take 
no  pleasure  in  that  which  I  have  had  to  write  to-day!" 

"You  like  Mr.  Carton?" 

"As  I  would  a  brother." 

"Senator  Cobb,  who  seems  to  me  an  honest  man 
says  that  he  has  done  wrong,"  and  she  nodded  toward 
the  other  corner  of  the  room  where  Senator  Cobb  was 
sitting. 

"Senator  Cobb  not  only  seems  to  be  an  honest  man, 
but  he  is  one,"  replied  Guthrie.  "Nevertheless,  I  am 
convinced  that  he  is  often  mistaken.  Still,  I  suppose 
you  don't  want  to  talk  of  politics." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  do,"  she  said  with  animation. 
"Will  the  men  never  learn  that  women  are  interested 
in  the  things  that  seem  to  be  within  the  peculiar  prov- 
ince of  men?  Perhaps  that  is  why  we  are — it  is  the 
mystery  that  attracts  us." 

Beholding  her  interest  and  convinced  that  it  was  real, 
not  assumed,  Guthrie  undertook  to  explain  the  situation, 
telling  how  his  party  in  a  way,  must  support  its  Speaker, 
yet  he  was  afraid  the  feeling  in  regard  to  corporations 
would  prove  too  strong;  there  had  been  for  a  long  time 
in  the  State  a  growing  sentiment  against  them,  some  of 
it  just,  some  of  it  unjust,  but  whether  just  or  unjust,  it 
was  very  powerful  and  must  be  recognised.  And  then 
he  told  her  of  all  the  wheels  within  wheels;  it  was  a 
State  of  very  strong  feelings,  and  consequently  strong 
local  jealousies  existed;  the  mountains  were  nearly 
always  arrayed  against  the  lowlands;  if  the  lowlands 
were  for  a  measure,  the  mountains  considered  it  their 


60  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

duty  to  be  against  it.  In  fact,  there  were  in  habit,  asso- 
ciation and  point  of  view  two  different  races  within  the 
State. 

"And  I  am  by  inheritance?"  she  said, 
"A  lowlander,  of  course." 

"But  I  do  not  dislike  that  Mr.  Pike,  the  mountaineer; 
I  saw  much  in  him  that  was  attractive." 

"And  much  also  that  was  different  from  us.  Nor 
does  it  follow  because  we  are  lowlanders,  that  the  low- 
landers  are  always  right  and  the  mountaineers  always 
wrong.  The  nearest  approach  to  our  mountaineers, 
I  think,  were  the  Scotch  Highlanders  of  two  hundred 
years  ago,  only  ours,  I  am  confident,  are  a  better  peo- 
ple." 

Then  he  told  of  journeys  into  the  mountains  with  the 
militia  to  put  down  the  feuds,  of  nights  on  the  peaks, 
lone  trails  along  the  cliffs,  and  hidden  marksmen,  and 
he  interested  her  like  a  new  Othello.     She  had  piqued 
him  from  the  first  by  her  indifference  to  her  native  land, 
her  educated  thought  that  all  that  was  old  must  be 
picturesque  and  all  that  was  new  must  be  raw  and 
dull;   and  now  when  he  saw  that  he  could  arouse  and 
interest  her  in  her  own,  he  felt  intense  satisfaction. 
"You  tell  of  life  in  much  variety,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Yes,"  he  replied,  and  he  intended  his  words  speci- 
ally for  her,  "it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  life  is 
so  much  more  interesting  here  than  it  is  in  Europe, 
for  instance,  except  for  a  very  few.     There  a  man  is 
numbered  and  ticketed  the  day  he  is  born,  and  assigned 
to  his  place  on  a  shelf  in  a  row  of  shelves,  be  the  shelf 
high  or  low;  while  here  every  man  is  free  to  pursue 
his  chosen  career  to  the  end,  without  let  or  hindrance, 
and  that  is  what  makes  life  worth  living." 


AFTER  THE  FIRST  GUN  61 

Guthrie  paused.  His  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes 
shining.  Clarice  noticed  the  light  in  his  eyes  and  the 
eagerness  of  his  tone,  and  despite  herself  she  thrilled 
with  sympathy.  But  she  would  not  show  it. 

"And  you,  of  course,  have  an  ambition,  Mr.  Guth- 
rie," she  said.  "Are  you  loath  to  tell  it?" 

Guthrie  laughed  a  little. 

"Mine  doesn't  count  for  much,"  he  replied  lightly. 
"The  only  thing  that  I  have  ahead  for  which  I  am 
working  is  our  Washington  bureau.  Our  man  there 
is  getting  old — he's  had  it  thirty  years — and  as  he  has 
saved  plenty  of  money,  he  may  retire  soon.  If  he  does, 
I  want  to  get  it.  Washington,  it  seems  to  me,  is  the 
grandest  arena  in  the  world  for  the  work  of  a  news- 
paper man." 

"I  hope  you  will  get  the  post,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  she 
said  with  real  sympathy,  and  Guthrie  looked  his  thanks. 

But  Mrs.  Hastings  told  him  something  a  little  later 
that  made  him  regret  part  of  what  he  had  said  to  Miss 
Ransome. 

"They  say  she  is  to  be  married  to  a  continental 
nobleman,  a  man  whom  she  met  in  Brussels,  I  think, 
Count  Raoul  d'Estournelle,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings.  It 
was  her  mother  that  arranged  it,  I  hear.  You  know 
Mr.  Ransome  has  made  a  great  deal  of  money,  and 
Mrs.  Ransome  is  very  anxious  for  them  to  live  abroad 
and  for  Clarice  to  make  what  she  calls  a  grand  mar- 
riage." 

"And  for  the  prospective  Countess  d'Estournelle 
to  be  thoroughly  miserable!"  said  Guthrie  with  some 
heat. 

Mrs.  Hastings  looked  keenly  at  him  but  said  nothing. 
For  continental  noblemen  he  had  a  hatred  and  con- 


62  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

tempt  partly  inherent  and  partly  cultivated.  Perhaps 
he  had  been  unfortunate  in  the  specimens  he  had  seen, 
but  whenever  he  saw  one,  he  thought  involuntarily  of 
the  bitter  description  of  them  given  by  his  friend,  Sen- 
ator Cobb.— "Half  man,  half  monkey."  And  with 
their  little  pointed  beards,  their  curled  hair,  their  per- 
fume and  above  all,  the  suspicion  of  that  awful  thing, 
hair-oil,  they  aroused  all  his  enmity. 

"  I  take  it  that  such  men  merely  come  here  as  fortune- 
hunters,"  he  said. 

"Let  us  hope  not,  in  this  case,  at  least,"  said  Mrs. 
Hastings.  "Ah!  there  is  some  one  else." 

They  heard  the  bell  ring,  and  a  moment  later  the 
tall  form  of  Mr.  Carton  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  V 
IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE 

THE  Speaker  had  come.  He  had  chosen  to  face 
the  public.  Guthrie  had  not  dreamed  of  his  doing 
otherwise.  Here  among  his  friends,  or  those  whom 
he  wished  to  be  his  friends,  he  showed  no  sign  of  diffi- 
dence or  discouragement.  In  such  a  society  as  this 
he  was  at  his  best,  his  manner  all  ease  and  lightness 
and  gayety.  Clarice  Ransome,  looking  at  him,  could 
not  believe — such  was  the  influence  of  her  European 
education — that  he  was  of  obscure  birth,  a  poor  coun- 
try boy  who  had  raised  himself  so  high,  and  who  had 
the  bearing  that  a  nobleman  is  supposed  to  have. 
And  she  wondered,  too,  if  he  were  innocent  of  the 
charge  brought  against  him.  Mr.  Guthrie  believed 
in  him,  but  an  easy  manner  did  not  always  hide  an 
innocent  heart. 

Clarice  noticed  a  slight  constraint  on  the  part  of 
Senator  Cobb,  Mary  Pelham,  and  one  or  two  others. 
They  did  not  seem  to  approve  wholly  of  the  Speaker 
and  his  light  manner  at  such  a  moment,  and  she  began 
to  watch  them  covertly  but  none  the  less  keenly. 

Clarice  Ransome  was  surprised  and  perhaps  a  little 
disappointed  to  find  that  she  was  beginning  to  take  a 
great  interest  in  these  men,  their  ambitions  and 
their  fortunes — ambitions  and  fortunes,  too,  in  which 
the  women  were  interwoven.  It  gave  her  at  first  a 

63 


64  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

sense  of  aloofness,  as  if  she  had  no  part  in  this  fresh 
active  life  so  full  of  youthful  zeal  and  energy,  and  the 
thought  was  not  pleasant  to  her.  Here  all  the  men 
were  masculine  and  all  the  women  feminine,  and  she  was 
in  the  midst  of  affairs.  The  talk  for  this  night,  at 
least,  was  not  of  trivialities,  but  of  things  intimately 
concerning  the  life  of  the  State. 

She  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  when  the  drift  of 
the  guests  from  point  to  point  brought  to  her  side  old 
Senator  Cobb,  a  man  for  whom  she  felt  a  spontaneous 
liking  because  of  his  noble,  old-fashioned  courtesy  and 
deference  to  women — a  manner  which  she  knew  to  be 
the  result  of  feeling  and  not  of  purpose. 

"You  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  the 
senator,  "a  fine  young  man,  though  swayed  too 
much  perhaps  by  city  and  aristocratic  influences.  He 

and  I  don't  agree  often,  but  I  can't  keep  from  liking 

i  •     »» 

him. 

She  wondered  why  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  Guthrie, 
and  then  concluded  that  it  was  a  mere  chance.  But 
she  did  not  care  to  show  great  interest  in  Guthrie  and 
she  responded  a  trifle  coldly: 

"He  seems  to  be  a  favourite  here  and  I  have  won- 
dered why;  in  Europe — I  was  educated  abroad  you 
know — representatives  of  the  press  are  not  such  famil- 
iar figures  in  official  life." 

The  eyes  of  the  old  senator  sparkled.  She  had 
touched  him  all  unconsciously  upon  one  of  his  sensitive 
points. 

"This  is  a  democracy,  Miss  Ransome,"  he  said,  "and 
we  should  resist  any  attempt  to  create  an  exclusive 
class  of  any  kind.  Public  officials,  no  matter  how 
high,  are  no  better  than  anybody  else.  The  President 


IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE  65 

of  the  United  States  is  merely  one  of  many  millions  of 
our  citizens." 

Meanwhile  the  governor  had  drawn  Guthrie  to  a 
small  apartment  opening  from  the  drawing-room 
where  Jimmy  Warfield  and  two  or  three  others  were 
looking  at  a  newspaper  spread  upon  a  table.  It  was 
an  afternoon  extra  from  the  second  city  of  the  State 
not  more  than  forty  miles  away,  and  the  entire  first 
page  was  occupied  with  a  florid  account  of  the  sensa- 
tional scene  in  the  House. 

Guthrie  looked  at  the  array  of  headlines  and  the 
leaded  columns,  and  the  whole  was  distinctly  unfav- 
ourable to  Carton. 

"And  see,"  said  Jimmy  Warfield  in  despair,  "here's 
Carton's  denial  at  the  end — just  a  few  lines,  stiff,  de- 
fiant, no  explanation  at  all.  I  wish  the  man  weren't 
so  high  and  haughty!  One  ought  not  to  be  a  dema- 
gogue, but  neither  ought  one  to  make  enemies  gratu- 
itously!" 

The  governor  frowned.  Guthrie  saw  clearly  that 
he  did  not  approve  of  Carton's  course  and  that  he  fore- 
saw the  gravest  consequences. 

"He  ought  to  have  gone  into  details,"  said  the 
governor,  shaking  his  head.  "This  shows  how  it  is 
possible  for  an  innocent  man  to  appear  guilty." 

"But  not  to  himself,"  said  Carton  over  their  shoul- 
ders. "A  man  conscious  of  his  own  innocence  does 
not  need  to  plead  before  others." 

He  had  entered,  unintentionally,  without  being 
heard.  Guthrie  quietly  closed  the  door. 

Carton's  face  was  flushed  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with 
anger.  He  glanced  once  at  the  glaring  headlines  and 
then  gazed  squarely  at  the  governor. 


66  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Hastings,"  he  said,  "it  was  wrong  in  me  to  have 
come  here,  and  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  it.  I  do  not  wish 
to  imperil  the  political  future  of  anybody  by  any  social 
intimacy  of  mine." 

The  governor's  face  flushed  in  turn  and  into  his 
eyes,  too,  came  an  angry  light. 

"Carton,"  he  said,  "in  five  minutes  you  will  be 
ready  to  apologise  to  me  for  that!" 

"You'll  do  it  in  one  minute,  Phil,  if  you've  got  any 
sense  of  decency  left!"  said  Jimmy  Warfield,  drumming 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

The  red  passed  out  of  Carton's  face  and  his  eyes  fell. 
Then  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  governor  who  took 
it  in  a  firm  clasp. 

"Paul,"  he  said,  "I  wronged  you.  I  spoke  from  a 
hasty  temper  and  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"That's  the  first  sensible  thing  you've  done  to-day, 
Phil,"  said  Jimmy  Warfield. 

And  while  not  going  so  far  as  Jimmy  Warfield, 
Guthrie  felt  nevertheless  that  he  was  on  the  trail  of  the 
truth. 

"Carton,"  said  Mr.  Hastings  with  dignity,  and 
yet  not  without  warmth  and  sympathy  for  the 
man  who  had  apologised  to  him,  "this  house  is 
always  open  to  you  at  any  time,  and  not  only  is  it 
open  to  you,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you 
enter  it." 

"I  know  it,  Paul,  I  know  it,"  said  Carton. 

Guthrie  quietly  opened  the  door  again  and  the  hum 
of  voices  came  once  more  from  the  drawing-room. 
An  unpleasant  incident  had  passed  off  better  than  he 
had  hoped. 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  ladies,"  he  said,  "and  I  think 


IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE  67 

that  the  rest  of  you  had  better  come,  too,  or  I  won't 
know  how  to  apologise  for  you." 

The  governor  thrust  the  newspaper  into  his  pocket 
and  followed  Guthrie,  who  joined  Mary  Pelham  for 
the  first  time  that  evening.  That  the  Speaker  was 
attentive  to  Mary  Pelham  was  a  secret  to  few  in  the 
capital,  and  the  ill-natured,  while  not  denying  her 
beauty  and  charm,  said  that  part  of  her  attraction  for 
him  lay  in  the  great  family  connection  and  political 
power  that  she  could  bring  to  him. 

Guthrie  found  her  animated  by  an  artificial  gayety, 
an  almost  feverish  glitter  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
conversation  having  the  slightest  touch  of  volubility. 
He  could  not  doubt  that  she  had  been  deeply  stirred 
by  the  attacks  on  Carton.  He  knew,  too,  her  critical 
nature;  in  the  course  of  things  she  must  have  heard 
the  insinuations  against  Carton's  devotion  to  her,  and 
she  could  not  help  being  affected  to  some  extent  by 
them;  that  feeling  would  lend  colour  in  her  mind  to 
the  present  charges  against  his  integrity.  Guthrie, 
although  he  did  not  speak  directly  of  Carton,  found 
that  his  surmise  was  true;  she  would  glance  now  and 
then  in  a  questioning  or  disparaging  way  at  the  Speaker. 
Guthrie  wished  to  speak  in  behalf  of  his  friend,  to  say 
something  in  his  praise,  but  he  did  not  dare;  it  would 
be  too  obvious — she  would  take  fire  both  at  the  de- 
fence of  Carton  and  the  impeachment  of  her  own 
faith  in  him.  He  could  see  that  her  pride  on  her  own 
account  and  his  was  deeply  touched,  and  Guthrie  began 
to  feel  as  much  sorrow  for  her  as  he  did  for  Carton. 

It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Hastings'  Wednesday  Evenings 
and  there  was  a  stream  of  callers — she  was  the  gover- 
nor's wife,  and  she  was  highly  popular  too  for  her  own 


68  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

sake — and  the  rooms  began  to  be  crowded.  Many 
of  those  who  came -were  official  enemies  alike  of  the 
governor  and  the  Speaker  and  among  such  were  the 
Republicans.  But  the  Republicans  socially  were  no 
trouble  because  their  political  hostility  was  taken  for 
granted,  and  it  rather  lent  a  zest  to  private  friendship. 
It  was  the  enemies  within  the  party,  among  the  Demo- 
crats themselves  who  could  bring  social  constraint. 
But  it  was  the  custom  of  a  century,  now  a  rigid  law, 
for  the  governor  and  his  wife  to  invite  all  members  of 
the  Senate  and  the  House  to  their  receptions,  and  they 
were  coming. 

Senator  Dennison  and  his  wife  were  present,  and 
the  senator  was  making  himself  agreeable  to  these 
legislators  who  in  another  year  or  two  would  vote  on 
his  reelection.  There  were  also  two  or  three  mem- 
bers of  the  Lower  House  of  Congress,  and  among  them 
Henry  Clay  Warner,  the  member  from  Guthrie's  own 
district,  the  Fifth,  who  had  not  turned  out  as  well  as 
the  voters  had  hoped. 

Everybody  noted  the  presence  of  the  Speaker  and 
his  high  manner.  Carton  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  incident  in  the  smaller  room  where  he  allowed  his 
pride  to  carry  him  too  far,  at  first,  and  once  more  he 
was  haughty  and  defiant.  Guthrie  exchanged  a  glance 
with  Jimmy  Warfield;  Jimmy  was  frowning,  and  his 
look  said  clearly  that  Carton  was  inviting  more  enmity. 
Warfield  himself  was  so  unsuspicious,  so  genial  in  man- 
ner and  such  a  believer  in  human  nature  that  he  liked 
most  men  and  most  men  naturally  liked  him;  hence 
he  could  not  understand  Carton's  course  and  he  did 
not  allow  for  the  difference  in  temperament. 

There  was  a  slight  stir  near  the  door,  a  suppressed 


IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE  69 

exclamation  of  surprise  from  Warfield,  and  Guthrie 
turning  about  saw  entering  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Pursley  in  evening  dress,  a  great  diamond  stud  glitter- 
ing on  the  white  expanse  of  his  shirt-bosom.  Guthrie 
was  with  Miss  Ransome  at  that  moment  and  she  ex- 
pressed astonishment. 

"I  did  ,not  think  he  would  come  here  to-night," 
she  said. 

"He  has  the  right,"  replied  Guthrie.  "The  un- 
written law  gives  it  to  him  and  the  Honourable  Alfred 
Lyttleton  Pursley  is  the  man  to  come." 

Mr.  Pursley  was  not  abashed.  No  scruples  dis- 
turbed his  delicate  soul.  He  advanced  boldly  to  the 
centre  of  the  room,  dispensing  greetings  to  right  and 
left  in  suave,  expansive  manner.  He  bowed  to  Guthrie 
and  also  extended  a  polite  hand. 

"Ah,  the  press  is  always  present,"  he  said  ingra- 
tiatingly. 

"But  off  duty  now,  don't  be  afraid,  Mr.  Pursley," 
replied  Guthrie. 

Mr.  Pursley  laughed,  and  lingered,  looking  admir- 
ingly at  Miss  Ransome,  and  Guthrie  was  forced  to 
introduce  him.  Mr.  Pursley  strove  to  be  impressive. 
He  had  heard  that  Miss  Ransome  had  just  returned 
to  her  own  country  after  many  years  spent  abroad, 
and  he  desired  to  show  her  one  of  the  finest  flowers  of 
free  institutions.  He  spoke  with  much  emphasis, 
adding  to  his  expressiveness  with  an  occasional  ges- 
ture, and  at  last  became  oratorical.  But  in  a  few 
minutes  he  passed  on.  Mr.  Pursley  was  too  much  of 
a  diplomatist  to  allow  one  person,  even  a  beautiful 
girl,  to  monopolise  his  time,  when  there  were  present 
many  others  worthy  of  his  attention. 


70  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Is  he  one  of  our  typical  public  men?"  asked 
Clarice  with  sly  irony,  after  Mr.  Pursley  had  gone. 

"No,  thank  God!"  replied  Guthrie  with  devout 
emphasis.  "That  is  one  of  our  exceptions.  But 
look!  He  and  Carton  are  about  to  meet!" 

Clarice  gazed  with  increased  interest.  Mr.  Purs- 
ley  in  his  triumphal  progress  had  been  moving  uncon- 
sciously toward  Carton  who  was  standing  at  the  far 
side  of  the  room.  The  people  opened  for  him  a  lane 
that  led  toward  the  Speaker,  and  he  did  not  notice 
where  it  was  carrying  him.  He  spoke  suavely  to 
Senator  Cobb  and  then  looking  up  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  Speaker.  Mr.  Pursley  started  and 
despite  his  assurance  his  red  face  turned  redder. 
The  Speaker  gave  him  a  surprised  and  angry 
glance.  Clarice  watching  them  was  trembling  with 

interest. 

"What  will  he  do?"  she  asked. 
"Who?    The    Speaker?    I    don't    know    myself," 
replied  Guthrie. 

But  Mr.  Carton,  after  his  momentary  surprise, 
showed  his  quality.  He  was  there,  a  guest,  and  it 
behooved  the  courteous  man  of  the  world  not  to  make 
even  the  faintest  semblance  of  a  scene  in  the  house 
of  his  host.  He  felt,  too,  that  the  eyes  of  fifty  people 
were  upon  him  and  that  they  would  tell  the  whole 
State  how  he  bore  himself. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Pursley,"  he  said  with  easy 
grace.  "All  of  us  like  to  come  here  and  get  fresh 
inspiration  for  the  next  day's  labours,  don't  we?" 

"Right  you  are,"  replied  Mr.  Pursley.  Beauty 
always  appeals  to  me,  Mr.  Carton.  You  wouldn't 
think  it  of  a  man  like  myself,  all  for  business  and  may 


IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE  71 

be,  as  the  world  sees  me,  a  little  hard,  but  it's  a  fact 
on  my  honour." 

Mr.  Pursley  made  an  inclusive  bow  to  everybody, 
especially  to  the  ladies  under  his  general  head  of 
"Beauty."  A  smile  passed  over  fifty  faces  and  Mr. 
Pursley  sought  less  embarrassing  company. 

Guthrie  uttered  a  low  "Ah!"  of  relief. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  asked  Miss  Ransome. 

"Because  Philip  Carton  has  done  better  than  I 
hoped  he  would,"  replied  Guthrie.  "He  has  been 
able  to  swallow  a  little  of  his  awful  pride  and  to  show 
some  tact." 

Guthrie  saw  that  the  Speaker  had  raised  himself  in 
the  opinion  of  every  one  present,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  Lucy  Hastings  confided  to  him  her  relief. 

"I  was  afraid  that  he  would  turn  his  back  on  Mr. 
Pursley,"  she  said  frankly,  "and  then  I  should  not 
have  known  what  to  do.  But  I  feel  so  sorry  for  Mr. 
Carton!" 

"So  do  I,"  said  Guthrie  frankly.  "He  will  have  a 
hard  row  to  hoe." 

The  crucial  tests  of  the  evening  were  now  over,  and 
it  passed  on  pleasantly.  Mr.  Pursley  still  coruscated, 
and  he  was  endured  because  he  was  a  part  of  the  Gov- 
ernment of  the  State,  and  had  a  right  there  by  ancient 
custom.  Carton  became  more  flexible,  although  he 
did  not  unbend  fully,  and  Guthrie  saw  him  and  Mary 
Pelham  together  for  a  little  while;  but  their  manner 
indicated  nothing.  He  looked  at  his  watch  by  and 
by,  and  decided  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  telegraph 
office  and  send  the  brief  additional  despatch  to  the 
Times  which  he  had  indicated  was  to  come.  Jimmy 
Warfield  heard  the  light  snap  of  the  closing  watch,  and 
turning  asked: 


72  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Are  you  going,  Billy?" 

"Yes,  I  must,"  replied  Guthrie;  "I  have  a  little  work 
to  do." 

"Then  wait  a  moment;  Carton  and  I  are  leaving, 
too,  and  we  can  walk  along  together." 

The  three  saying  their  good  nights  passed  into  the 
street,  Carton  in  the  centre  and  Guthrie  and  Warfield 
on  either  side.  Guthrie  noticed  how  Carton  took  the 
centre  as  his  right. 

The  three  were  silent  as  they  walked  toward  the 
hotel— both  Carton  and  Warfield  had  rooms  there,  too. 
The  capital  was  not  brilliantly  lighted,  and  the  darkness 
lay  over  it  like  a  blanket,  with  stars  twinkling  through 
holes,  and  the  circle  of  hills  looming  vaguely. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Carton  at  last,  "I  did  not  expect 
to  meet  Pursley  there,  but,  when  I  did  meet  him,  I  felt 
as  I  used  to  do  sometimes  when  I  was  a  boy  and  angry 
at  another  boy:  I  wanted  to  strike  him  in  the  face!" 

"'But  when  I  became  a  man,  I  put  away  childish 
things/"  said  Jimmy  Warfield. 

Carton  said  nothing,  and  they  reached  the  flight  of 
stone  steps  leading  up  to  the  lobby  of  the  hotel.  A 
man  was  standing  there,  wrapped  in  a  long  black 
overcoat,  the  silk  hat  on  his  head  tipped  slightly  to 
one  side.  When  the  stranger  heard  the  footsteps  be- 
side him,  he  turned  and  disclosed  the  face  of  Pursley. 

"Well,  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  the  member  cheerily, 
"the  spirit  moved  our  feet  about  the  same  time  and  in 
the  same  direction,  didn't  it?" 

By  the  electric  light  flaring  from  the  hotel,  Guthrie 
saw  Carton's  face  flame  into  red.  He  could  put  the 
rein  upon  his  temper  in  the  house  of  the  Governor 
where  they  were  both  friends,  but  here  he  let  it  go. 


IN  THE  GOVERNOR'S  HOUSE  73 

"Pursley,  you  infernal  scoundrel,  don't  you  ever 
speak  to  me  again!"  he  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Pursley's  cheeks  turned  purple,  but  his  con- 
trol over  himself  was  better  than  Carton's. 

"Mr.  Carton,"  he  replied,  "what  I  said  about  you,  I 
said  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  of  which  I  am  a  member, 
and  where  I  have  the  privilege.  I  don't  let  my  politi- 
cal quarrels  become  personal,  and  I  give  you  this  piece 
of  advice  without  charge:  don't  you  do  it,  either!" 

So  speaking,  Mr.  Pursley  marched  into  the  hotel. 

"You  let  him  score  on  you  there,  Phil,"  said  Jimmy 
Warfield  in  the  light  and  careless  tone  with  which  he 
knew  how  to  speed  a  rebuke. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?"  exclaimed  Carton 
angrily.  "Am  I  to  smile  and  shake  hands,  as  if  I 
liked  him,  with  a  man  who  has  called  me  a  thief  and 
a  blackmailer?" 

"'When  I  became  a  man  I  put  away  childish 
things,'"  again  quoted  Jimmy  Warfield  softly. 

Carton,  leaving  his  friends,  stalked  angrily  into  the 
hotel,  passed  without  a  word  through  the  lobby  where 
many  men  yet  lingered,  and  went  to  his  room. 

"He'll  be  hard  to  manage,  Billy,"  said  Jimmy  War- 
field,  as  he  looked  after  the  Speaker's  form  disappear- 
ing up  the  stairway. 

"Very,"  said  Guthrie  emphatically.  "I  wonder  if 
we  couldn't  get  old  Senator  Dennison  to  take  hold  of 
him." 

"We  might  later  on,  but  not  yet.  Better  let  him 
alone  for  the  present.  He's  too  sensitive  just  now, 
and  would  resent  anything." 

Guthrie,  bidding  Warfield  good  night,  sent  his  brief 
despatch,  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  MAKER  OF    REPUTATIONS 

THE  next  day's  session  of  both  House  and  Senate 
was  languid  so  far  as  concerned  their  own  business, 
but  there  was  keen  interest  in  both  bodies  to  see  the 
newspaper  accounts  of  Carton's  affairs.  Both  sena- 
tors and  representatives  knew  that  first  impressions 
were  likely  to  have  a  deep  effect  upon  the  public,  and 
the  State  was  bound  to  get  all  its  news  from  the  press: 
there  was  no  other  source  of  either  information  or  mis- 
information. 

This  little  city  is  peculiar  in  the  fact  that  it  is  more 
isolated  than  any  other  important  place  in  the  State. 
Nestling  in  its  hollow  in  the  hills,  it  has  but  a  single  line 
of  railroad,  and  the  members  do  not  know  how  the 
people  take  any  act  of  theirs  until  the  trains  come 
east  and  west,  bringing  the  newspapers  from  the  larger 
cities  of  the  State. 

Guthrie  saw  the  Speaker  open  his  Times  and  read  his 
account  with  close  attention.  When  Carton  finished 
it,  he  leaned  over  in  his  chair— Guthrie  sat  scarcely 
a' yard  away— and  whispered:  "Billy,  I  thank  you;" 
but,  when  he  read  some  of  the  other  papers,  he  frowned 
and  once  he  bit  his  lip  savagely.  Guthrie  later  exam- 
ined them  at  his  leisure,  and  it  was  his  opinion  that  the 
first  impression  upon  the  State  would  be  unfavourable, 
despite  the  powerful  influence  of  the  Times.  But  he 

74 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  75 

said  nothing,  and  left  Carton  for  the  present,  having 
an  engagement  to  which  he  was  looking  forward  with 
pleasure. 

The  Legislature  adjourned  for  the  day  at  2  p.  M.,  and 
he  had  asked  Clarice  Ransome  to  go  driving  with  him 
on  the  beautiful  river  road  that  leads  out  of  the  town 
and  into  the  great  lowland  valley.  She  had  accepted, 
and  half  an  hour  later  Guthrie  was  at  the  Governor's 
door  with  the  carriage. 

"Don't  forget  to  show  her  all  the  glory  of  the  place," 
said  Lucy  Hastings  as  they  drove  away;  and  Guthrie, 
giving  his  promise,  increased  the  speed  of  his  horses 
until  they  swung  with  their  long,  level  trot  into  the 
river  road. 

Winter  had  not  come  in  full  tide,  yet  the  day  was 
cold  and  crisp  with  a  wonderful  sunny  light  over  the 
river  and  the  brown  hills.  Guthrie  felt  a  great  exhila- 
ration as  he  drew  the  fur  robes  more  closely  about 
them.  It  was  partly  the  crisp  and  tonic  freshness  of 
the  day  and  partly  the  presence,  by  his  side,  of  Clarice 
with  whom  he  began  to  feel  for  the  first  time  the  sense 
of  comradeship.  But  its  effect  was  to  make  him  silent 
rather  than  talkative,  and  he  spoke  so  seldom  that 
Clarice  glanced  at  him  in  surprise.  He  was  looking 
straight  ahead,  apparently  at  the  hills  and  the  river, 
but,  when  she  studied  his  face,  the  colour  in  her  own 
cheeks  deepened  a  little;  suddenly,  she  was  embar- 
rassed, but  as  suddenly  the  embarrassment  passed 
away. 

"How  is  your  Mr.  Carton  coming  on?"  she  asked 
at  length. 

"Not  too  well,  I  fear,"  he  replied.  "So  far  as  I 
can  judge  from  the  newspapers  that  have  come  in, 


76  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

the  impression  that  he  has  made  upon  the  State  in  this 
crisis  of  his  life  is  distinctly  unfavourable.  1  shall  do 
all  I  can  for  him  in  the  Times,  and  the  Times  is  pow- 
erful; but  there  are  so  many  against  us." 

Then  he  relapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence,  and  she 
was  studying  him.  She  noticed  the  firm  set  of  his  head, 
the  curve  of  a  long  and  masterful  jaw,  and  her  respect 
for  him  increased. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  she  said,  "that  men 
in  your  profession  are  makers  of  reputations  or — the 
destroyers  of  them!" 

"That  is  so,"  replied  Guthrie  with  a  slight  smile. 
"We  are  the  heralds,  the  trumpeters  of  fame,  whether 
it  is  good  or  evil." 

"But  you  are  trying  to  save  Mr.  Carton,"  she  said, 
quietly  pursuing  her  purpose,  "and,  by  and  by,  you  will 
be  seeking  to  make  or  save  the  reputation  of  somebody 
else.  Now,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  for  yourself?" 

Guthrie  looked  at  her  in  slow  surprise.  He  was  so 
much  immersed  in  his  present  work  that  he  had  not 
thought  much  about  his  future  beyond  the  Washington 
bureau.  So  he  told  her  again  of  his  design  to  go  to  the 
national  capital  for  the  Times. 

"But  after  that?"  she  persisted. 

"Well  I  don't  know,"  replied  Guthrie  slowly.  "To 
tell  you  the  truth  I  haven't  looked  so  far,  but  I  suppose 
I  expect  to  be  a  great  editor  some  day." 

"But  aren't  the  great  editors  nowadays  the  pro- 
prietors ?  And,  as  I  understand  it,  it  takes  a  million- 
aire to  be  the  proprietor  of  a  successful  newspaper. 
And  are  you  a  money-maker?" 

She  smiled  at  him,  as  if  she  asked  the  questions 
lightly  or  carelessly. 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  77 

"No,"  replied  Guthrie  with  conviction,  "I  am  not 
a  money-maker.  I'm  a  writer.  I've  thought  in  a 
vague  sort  of  way  that  I'd  like  to  be  rich,  but  I  suppose 
I  never  shall  be.  I  can  pursue  money  for  a  while, 
but,  just  when  I'm  about  to  catch  up,  something  else 
that  I'm  more  interested  in  draws  me  off." 

She  smiled  again,  and  once  more  regarded  his  face 
with  attention  as  he  gazed  absently  at  the  brown  slope 
of  the  hills. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  to  be  an  anonymous 
writer  all  my  life,"  she  said.  "No  matter  how  bril- 
liantly you  may  write  a  thing,  only  a  few  people  in  your 
office  will  know  who  has  done  it,  and  yet  prestige,  credit 
for  good  work,  is  part  of  one's  capital  in  life.  When 
one's  work  is  of  a  semipublic  nature,  one  is  entitled 
to  credit,  not  only  from  one's  employer,  but  from  the 
public  also." 

"Still,"  said  Guthrie,  "in  a  country  like  this,  journal- 
ism must  be  anonymous;  it  cannot  be  carried  on  in 
any  other  fashion." 

She  did  not  reply.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  that  he 
had  quite  understood  her,  and  she  did  not  feel  that  she 
was  entitled  to  go  further  with  one  whom  she  had  not 
known  long.  She  was  quite  sure  that  she  liked  him, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  admire  him,  partly  for  his 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  others;  but  she  could  not  see 
to  just  what  point  his  career  would  lead  him. 

She  was  aware,  too,  that  her  interest  in  him,  to  a 
great  extent  at  least,  was  due  to  the  difference  between 
him  and  the  young  men  whom  she  had  known  abroad 
— Europeans  and  some  Americans  living  in  Europe. 
She  found  in  Guthrie  a  zeal,  an  enthusiasm,  a  love  of 
his  work,  a  desire  to  make  a  career,  and  a  disregard 


78  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

for  the  little  things  of  life,  that  she  found  stimulating 
by  contact.  She  did  not  care  to  disregard  the  little 
things  herself,  but  she  was  beginning  to  be  aware  that 
they  were  merely  little  things  after  all.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  men  who  considered  it  bad  form  to  be 
interested  in  one's  work,  if  one  had  any,  and  to  feel  or 
to  affect  to  feel  indifference  or  cynicism  toward  all 
things.  She  had  once  thought  this  distinguished  and 
impressive — now  she  feared  that  it  was  only  a  pose  or  a 
mere  weakness;  an  air  of  boredom  which  was  once 
the  hall-mark  of  superiority  was  becoming  the  badge 
of  ill  manners.  She  could  not  endorse  all  that  Guthrie 
said;  but  she  liked  his  sincerity,  and  he  seemed  to  her 
more  masculine  than  those  others. 

His  thoughts,  unlike  hers,  were  not  travelling  beyond 
the  one  by  his  side.  The  paramount  wish  with  him 
was  to  make  a  convert — that  is,  to  bring  her  over  to  his 
ways  of  thinking.  She  had  piqued  him  by  her  indif- 
ference, and  sometimes  by  her  critical  coldness  toward 
her  own  people  and  their  affairs.  This  increased  his 
desire  to  convert  her  and  to  interest  her  in  her  own. 
His  zeal  hitherto  had  been  wholly  professional,  the 
case  appealing  to  him  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  a 
difficult  assignment,  the  non-performance  of  which 
would  injure  his  prestige.  But  now,  sitting  by  his 
side  with  no  one  else  near,  she  made  to  him  an  appeal 
of  a  wholly  different  kind,  and  the  appeal  was  of  the 
essence  feminine.  She  was  not  a  woman  to  be  con- 
verted, but  just  an  attractive  girl,  and  unconsciously 
he  liked  her  much  the  better  because  of  it.  He  sud- 
denly realised  that  she  was  very  beautiful — it  had  not 
occurred  to  him  to  see  it  before,  and,  for  the  while,  he 
felt  embarrassment. 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  79 

A  handsome  old  man  with  beautiful  silver-gray  hair 
met  them.  He  was  on  foot,  but  he  walked  briskly  and 
with  vigour.  A  fine  smile  lighted  up  his  face  as  he  saw 
Guthrie,  and  he  bowed. 

"That  was  the  Bishop  was  it  not?"  asked  Clarice 
when  the  old  man  was  out  of  hearing. 

"Yes." 

"He  seemed  to  know  you  well." 

"He  does,"  replied  Guthrie.  "He  has  known  me 
all  my  life." 

He  was  tempted  to  tell  her  of  Templeton's  case  and 
his  part  in  it,  in  order  to  see  if  she  would  support  him; 
but  he  refrained,  and  he  was  glad  of  it  when  they  met 
Templeton  himself  five  minutes  later. 

Templeton  was  alone  in  a  light  cart  behind  a  thor- 
oughbred trotter,  whose  swift  hoofs  made  sparks  fly 
from  the  road.  The  man  himself  was  wrapped  in  a 
great  fur  coat,  and  he  handled  the  lines  with  a  prac- 
tised hand,  making  a  brave  appearance  as  he  dashed 
past.  He  bowed  curtly  to  Guthrie,  the  bow  having  in 
it  a  note  of  derision.  "  He  thinks  I  wanted  to  publish 
that  story  about  him  and  couldn't,"  was  Guthrie's 
inference. 

"That  was  Mr.  Templeton  of  the  treasurer's  office," 
he  said  in  reply  to  Clarice's  inquiring  look. 

"He  drives  well,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is  of  the  type  that  girls  call 
'dashing!'" 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  There  was  a  slight 
touch  of  bitterness  in  his  tone,  but,  as  he  offered  no 
explanation,  she  could  not  ask  for  one. 

The  road,  still  as  smooth  as  a  floor,  ran  close  beside 
the  river,  and  presently  the  hills  dipped  down,  leaving 


80  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

low  banks,  where  the  water  eddied  into  a  cove.  Here 
lay  a  large  raft  in  the  centre  of  which  had  been  built  a 
little  log-house  with  a  stove-pipe  thrust  through  the 
roof.  Two  men  sat  on  the  raft  at  the  door  of  the  house, 
smoking  their  pipes.  They  were  long,  thin,  angular, 
bony,  and  yellow,  and  they  looked  at  the  passing  car- 
riage with  dull,  expressionless  .eyes. 

"Mountaineers,"  said  Guthrie.  "They  are  pretty 
late  with  their  raft,  as  the  river  is  likely  to  be  covered 
with  ice  any  tune,  soon.  Queer  people,  those.  I've 
been  among  them  a  lot,  but  I  can't  understand  them. 
As  I  told  you,  they  are  a  different  race  from  us  of  the 
lowlands.  They  see  everything  at  another  angle.  Ah, 
they've  got  a  visitor!" 

As  the  road  began  to  ascend  again,  the  carriage  was 
proceeding  slowly,  and  Guthrie  saw  a  tall  man  cross 
the  way  and  step  upon  the  raft,  which  was  tied  to  the 
bank. 

"That  looks  much  like  the  Reverend  Zedekiah 
Pike,"  said  Miss  Ransome. 

"So  much  like  him  that  it  is  he,"  said  Guthrie. 
"Those  must  be  constituents  of  his;  they  float 
their  timber  down  here  from  many  parts  of  the 
mountains." 

He  was  idly  watching  Mr.  Pike,  not  from  any  par- 
ticular curiosity,  but  because  the  member  naturally 
attracted  attention,  especially  in  a  landscape  which 
now  contained  so  few  human  figures.  This  vague 
interest  was  suddenly  increased  to  keen  excitement 
when  he  saw  one  of  the  men  on  the  raft  spring  to  his 
feet  at  sight  of  Mr.  Pike  and  draw  a  revolver.  As  he 
raised  it  aloft,  the  polished  barrel  shone  in  the  wintry 
sunlight  with  a  blue  glitter,  but  Mr.  Pike  held  up  his 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  81 

hand  as  if  in  peace,  the  third  man  interfered,  and  the 
pistol  was  lowered. 

Clarice  was  quivering  with  excitement  and  appre- 
hension. She  had  never  before  seen  a  weapon  drawn 
in  anger. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked  of  Guthrie. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied  seriously,  "except  that 
we  were  on  the  edge  of  a  tragedy.  I  saw  that  moun- 
taineer's finger  on  the  trigger." 

"And  what  do  you  infer?"  she  asked,  not  able  to 
hide  her  curiosity. 

"That  those  men,  instead  of  being  Mr.  Pike's  con- 
stituents, are  the  exact  opposite." 

She  understood  Guthrie's  hint.  She  had  heard  of 
the  mountain  feuds,  but  they  always  seemed  far 
away  and  vague;  she  could  not  realise  them;  even 
here  the  mountains  were  yet  distant,  and  this  was 
the  capital  of  the  State,  full  of  peaceful  men  and 
women. 

She  looked  back  as  they  passed  over  the  hill,  and 
saw  Mr.  Pike  standing  very  erect  on  the  raft  and  talk- 
ing to  one  of  the  men  who  was  also  standing.  But 
the  other,  he  who  had  drawn  the  revolver,  was  sitting 
down  again,  lazily  smoking  his  pipe. 

"It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  she  said, 
"but  that  little  scene  has  aroused  all  my  curiosity." 

"Mine  has  been  burning  a  little,  too,"  said  Guthrie 
with  a  laugh. 

But  they  said  no  more  of  Mr.  Pike  at  present,  and 
Clarice  by  and  by  came  back  to  Guthrie,  who  was  a 
subject  that  interested  her  more.  She  knew  no  par- 
ticular reason  why  she  should  have  his  possible  career 
on  her  mind,  but  he  seemed  to  her  to  be  somewhat  dif- 


82  GUTHRIE  OP  THE  TIMES 

ferent  from  the  ordinary  types,  and  she  wished  to  know 
how  he  had  arrived  at  his  present  state. 

Guthrie  himself  was  a  model  interviewer,  and  much 
of  his  skill  in  the  art  lay  in  his  lack  of  intrusiveness, 
his  suppression  of  all  the  paraphernalia  of  his  trade, 
and  his  simplicity  of  manner — all  tending  to  inspire 
confidence  in  his  subject  and  to  make  him  feel  that 
the  interviewer  was  his  confidential  friend.  This  had 
grown  to  be  second  nature  with  him,  so  much  a  mat- 
ter of  practice  rather  than  of  deliberation  that  he  failed 
to  notice  how  he  was  confronted  by  an  art  of  the  same 
character  as  his  own,  but  even  more  delicate. 

Under  her  deft  manipulation,  Guthrie  told  of  his 
early  ambition  to  be  a  lawyer  first,  and  then  a  states- 
man. In  the  State  in  which  he  was  born  and  in  which 
he  lived,  the  law  seemed  to  be  the  only  pathway  to  pub- 
lic life.  Practically  everybody  who  rose  to  distinction 
among  the  people — save  in  commerce,  and  for  that  he 
had  no  vocation— had  begun  by  defending  or  prose- 
cuting petty  criminals  in  magistrates'  courts.  In  the 
early  days  of  the  State,  the  only  men  of  culture  were 
the  lawyers  and  the  clergymen,  and,  in  his  part  of  it,  the 
clergymen  were  debarred  from  public  life  by  the  nature 
of  their  calling.  Hence  it  was  left  for  the  lawyers  to 
make  the  laws  and  administer  them. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Guthrie  as  a  boy  to  choose 
any  other  profession  than  the  law,  although  the  dusty 
court-houses,  the  sheepskin-bound  books,  and  the 
sight  of  the  lawyers  browbeating  witnesses  or  haggling 
over  technicalities,  repelled  him  to  the  last  degree. 
Yet  it  was  still  the  occupation  to  which  all  the  bright- 
est and  most  ambitious  boys  were  expected  to  turn  as 
a  matter  of  course.  In  that  country,  when  a  boy  de- 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  83 

veloped  unusual  ability,  it  was  customary  to  say: 
"Why,  he's  smart  enough  to  be  a  lawyer!"  The 
strength  of  the  lawyer  with  the  public  lay  in  his  ability 
to  speak,  particularly  in  a  State  which  loves  oratory; 
and  by  oratory  is  meant  the  smooth  flow  of  words,  a 
sort  of  music  appealing  directly  to  the  senses  rather 
than  any  cogent  form  of  logic.  Guthrie  early  dis- 
trusted these  orators,  the  majority  of  whom  seemed  to 
lean  to  demagogy  and  to  whatever  cause  they  thought 
the  majority  of  the  voters  favoured;  but,  in  those  im- 
mature days,  he  believed  it  was  his  bad  luck  to  come 
into  contact  with  the  poorer  specimens  of  the  class:  off 
in  the  other  counties,  there  were  men  of  higher  type. 

So  he  went  to  the  metropolis  of  the  State  and  studied 
the  law,  always  with  an  eye  to  a  public  career  when 
he  should  have  won  his  triumphs  in  the  court-room 
before  judge  and  jury.  Meanwhile  and  in  order  to 
provide  himself  with  funds  he  began  to  do  work  for 
the  Times  in  odd  hours,  aided  by  the  friendship  of  an 
influential  member  of  its  staff.  He  did  not  notice  at 
the  time  that  his  study  of  the  law  was  an  effort,  but  that 
newspaper  work  was  easy  and  spontaneous;  the  law 
did  not  interest  him  a  particle,  his  newspaper  work 
was  like  a  game  of  base-ball,  played  for  its  own  sake — 
for  the  game  itself.  Clever  lawyers  were  pointed  out 
to  him  and  it  was  told  how  this  man  or  that  man  had 
gone  into  court  with  no  case  at  all,  and  by  sheer  ability 
had  won.  It  revolted  his  moral  sense  that  any  man 
should  use  an  intellect  for  the  triumph  of  the  wrong 
over  the  right.  He  was  not  prepared  to  say  that  a  law- 
yer should  not  do  his  best  for  the  side  that  retained  him, 
but  he  began  to  fear  that  his  own  mental  make-up 
forbade  his  doing  it.  One  day  he  saw  a  great  lawyer, 


84  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

famed  for  his  skill  in  cross  examination,  frighten  and 
confuse  his  opponent's  client  on  the  witness  stand 
until  the  man  made  contradictory  statements  and  lost 
his  case.  Then  everybody  complimented  the  great 
lawyer  on  his  skill,  and  the  newspapers  printed  a 
eulogistic  account  of  his  triumph,  with  his  picture  at 
the  top;  but  Guthrie  and  all  the  lawyers  knew  that  the 
man  who  lost  his  case  wa^s  right  and  should  have 
won.  He  could  never  think  of  that  incident  without 
a  shudder. 

"But  not  all  lawyers  are  like  that;  there  are  excep- 
tions," said  Clarice. 

"Happily  there  are,"  said  Guthrie,  and  he  thought 
of  old  Senator  Cobb  who  told  him  once  that  he  had 
never  taken  a  case  which  he  did  not  believe  to  be  right. 
And  Guthrie  knew  that  Senator  Cobb  told  the  truth. 
Clarice  deftly  led  him  back  to  himself  and  Guthrie 
resumed  the  thread  of  his  story.  He  had  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  easily  passing  his  examinations, 
learning  enough  for  that  purpose  by  the  sheer  power 
of  memory  and  concentrated  application.  Then  he 
looked  around  for  an  opportunity  to  practise  and 
stayed  a  month  in  an  office.  But  dry  and  dusty  as  the 
theory  had  seemed,  the  practice  was  worse.  Nothing 
in  it — neither  its  form  nor  its  spirit — interested  him; 
everything  seemed  to  proceed  indirectly — if  you  wanted 
a  particular  thing,  you  must  ask  for  it  under  some 
other  name  than  its  own. 

"Then,"  said  Guthrie  with  a  laugh,  containing  no 
trace  of  bitterness,  "I  got  down  one  evening  and  had 
it  out  with  myself.  It  came  upon  me  suddenly,  but 
with  the  full  power  of  conviction,  that  nature  had  not 
intended  me  to  be  a  lawyer  and  to  try  cases.  I  was  on 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  85 

the  wrong  road  and  I  must  get  off  at  once.  I  was 
more  resigned  to  this  because  I  saw  that  in  the  city  the 
law  did  not,  as  in  the  country,  monopolise  the  best 
talent  of  the  community.  There  the  intellectual  life 
was  more  varied;  the  law  had  good  men,  but  there 
were  men  just  as  good  in  medicine,  journalism,  com- 
merce, manufactures,  and  other  pursuits.  So  you  see, 
I  was  reconciled;  every  one  wants  to  feel  that  the  way 
is  open  for  him  to  become  President,  whether  he  ever 
gets  within  a  thousand  miles  of  it  or  not.  At  any  rate 
I  went  to  the  Times  office." 

Guthrie  stopped  and  laughed.  His  face  lighted  up 
with  some  humorous  recollections  of  his  foray  into  the 
law. 

"And  what  happened  at  the  Times  office?"  asked 
Clarice  sympathetically. 

"Why,  they  took  me  at  once,"  replied %  Guthrie. 
"I  had  been  doing  some  work  for  them,  as  I  told  you, 
and  they  seemed  to  like  it.  'You  get  to  the  inside  of 
things  here/  said  the  managing  editor — I  suppose  I 
never  got  to  the  inside  of  the  law.  'I  didn't  want 
to  interfere  with  your  study  of  the  law,  but  I 
knew  that  sooner  or  later  you'd  come  to  us  for 
a  job.  Why  shouldn't  you?  You'll  never  be 
happy  until  you  do  the  thing  that  suits  you  best.' 
Well,  I've  been  with  the  Times  ever  since." 

"It  seems  to  me,  nevertheless,"  said  Clarice  medi- 
tatively, "that  there  are  more  prospects  in  the  law 
than  in  journalism." 

"Don't  think  that  I  pose  as  a  critic  of  the  law!" 
said  Guthrie  briskly.  "It's  a  noble  profession,  only 
it  did'nt  suit  me.  I  speak  from  the  personal  stand- 
point of  one  man,  your  humble  servant.  I  suppose 


86  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

that  I've  found  now  what  the  French  call  my  metier. 
At  least  the  work  in  it  comes  very  easy." 

"But  don't  you  ever  think  of  public  life?"  asked 

Clarice. 

"Only  in  a  semi-detached  way  now— that  is,  as  a 
chronicler  of  it,  with  a  small  influence,  perhaps,  aris- 
ing from  that  office.  I  am  like  one  of  the  college  boys 
at  the  football  games  who  isn't  in  the  game  itself,  but 
who  can  stand  on  the  coaching  lines  and  shout  and  yell 
and  who  make  a  lot  of  noise,  and  sometimes  delude 
the  public  into  the  belief  that  he  is  really  an  im- 
portant person.  No,  I'm  in  this  business  now  and, 
like  General  Grant,  I'll  have  to  fight  it  out  on  this 
line,  if  it  takes  all  summer." 

Clarice  let  the  subject  go,  nor  did  Guthrie  resume 
it.  Instead,  just  as  they  were  entering  a  stretch  of 
level  road  he  cracked  his  whip  over  the  horses  and  they 
swung  into  a  long,  easy  trot,  maintaining  a  speed  that 
Clarice  scarcely  realised.  But  it  was  most  invigor- 
ating. They  were  young  and  they  were  marching  to- 
ward easy  terms.  The  crisp,  cold  air  rushed  past, 
making  the  blood  sparkle  in  their  veins  and  deepen- 
ing the  red  in  their  cheeks.  Guthrie  gave  Clarice  a 
sidelong  glance,  and  again  wondered  why  he  had  not 
noticed  before  how  handsome  she  was.  He  observed 
the  long  curve  of  her  eyelashes,  the  lips  closed  so  firmly, 
her  attitude  of  strength,  and  he  reflected  that  after  all 
it  was  worth  while  to  convert  this  girl  to  his  opinions; 
she  might  not  be  frivolous,  as  he  had  first  thought,  or 
devoted  to  secondary  matters. 

Though  the  landscape  was  wintry,  it  had  also  some 
lingering  aspects  of  late  autumn.  The  haze  on  the 
rolling  hills  was  fine  and  misty  like  that  of  Indian  sum- 


A  MAKER  OF  REPUTATIONS  87 

mer,  and  afar  three  or  four  threads  of  smoke  showed 
like  silver  wire  against  a  white,  cold  sky.  While  the 
capital  lay  within  the  heart  of  a  coil  of  hills,  the  edge  of 
the  great  lowland  valley  was  only  a  few  miles  away, 
and  now  they  swung  into  it,  the  fertile  lands  stretch- 
ing for  miles  and  dotted  at  intervals  with  the  solid 
brick  houses,  each  inside  its  cluster  of  trees. 

Clarice  spoke  her  admiration  and  said  it  reminded 
her  of  rural  France.  Then  Guthrie  turned  interviewer, 
and  by  suggestion  induced  her  to  tell  much  of  her  own 
life  abroad.  He  wished  to  hear  of  the  Count  Raoul 
d'Estournelle,  but  he  would  not  intimate  anything 
concerning  him  nor  did  she  speak  of  him.  Instead 
she  told  of  the  teaching  through  which  she  had  passed. 

She  had  been  taught  to  see  what  was  only  strange, 
outre,  in  her  own  country.  The  press  of  Europe  re- 
ported solely  its  accidents  and  its  crimes,  and  these 
by  and  by,  appearing  as  the  only  pictures  silhouetted 
against  the  screen,  gave  her  a  single  mental  impression 
of  it. 

"There  was  the  Spanish  War,"  she  said.  "It  gave 
me  a  distaste.  Everybody  on  the  Continent  said  it 
was  the  unprovoked  attack  of  a  big  nation  upon  a  little 
one  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  taking  the  latter's 
territory." 

Guthrie  smiled  and  said  nothing.  He  knew  all  that 
had  gone  before  that  struggle,  but  he  judged  that  she 
was,  to  a  much  larger  extent  than  she  realised,  under 
adverse  influences,  and  it  would  be  wiser  to  keep  silent 
for  a  while. 

Then  they  drifted  into  the  personal  gossip  of  the 
capital.  She  wanted  to  know  who  everybody  was  and 
why  they  were  what  they  were,  and  she  could  not  have 


88  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

gone  to  a  better  guide  than  Guthrie.  He  had  the  en- 
tire history  of  the  State  at  his  fingers'  ends— not  only 
its^general  history,  but  its  family  and  personal  story  as 
well.  He  knew  every  man  of  importance  in  the  State 
and  his  record,  and  he  explained  the  character  of  all 
these  people  whom  she  had  met  in  the  capital  and 
showed  their  political  and  personal  relations  to  each 
other.  While  he  was  yet  telling  her  these  things,  he 
turned  and  drove  back  over  the  road  by  which  they 
had  come,  wishing  to  reach  the  capital  at  twilight. 
As  the  first  faint  tinge  of  dark  appeared  in  the  eastern 
sky  they  became  silent.  They  were  back  among  the 
hills  again,  and  below  them  they  saw  the  silver  streak 
of  the  river.  Clarice  was  impressed  by  the  silence  and 
loneliness  of  the  world,  but  it  was  a  loneliness  without 
fear.  It  gave  her,  too,  a  stronger  feeling  of  comrade- 
ship with  Guthrie— a  comradeship  reaching  a  point 
where  conversation  was  not  necessary. 

The  red  light  from  the  setting  sun  blazed  across  the 
brown  oaks,  and  covered  the  departing  world  with 
fire.  Clarice  shook  herself  a  little.  She  would  not 
yield  to  such  feelings.  She  preferred  to  talk  when  she 
was  driving  with  a  young  man  at  the  approach  of  twi- 
light, no  matter  who  that  young  man  might  be. 

"My  mind  goes  back  to  Mr.  Pike,"  she  said, 
am  still  wondering  about  that  little  scene  on  the  raft." 

"I  cannot  guess  what  it  meant,"  said  Guthrie. 

In  another  hour  they  were  in  the  capital  and  Guthrie 
left  her  at  the  door  of  the  Governor's  house. 

"I  have  enjoyed  my  drive,"  she  said  sincerely,  as 
she  bade  him  good  night.  "I  think  I  am  beginning 
to  feel. the  spell  of  the  place!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT  MOUNT  EAGLE 

A  FEW  hours  later  Clarice  Ransome,  Mary  Pelham, 
and  Lucy  Hastings  were  sitting  by  the  fire  in  Clarice's 
room,  lingering  there  a  while  before  they  went  to  bed. 
The  wood  fires  are  one  of  the  chief  delights  of  this  old- 
fashioned  house;  there  is  such  a  plenty  of  wood  and 
they  burn  with  such  a  lively  blaze  and  such  a  fine 
crackle  that,  in  these  last  luxurious  minutes  before 
yielding  to  sleep,  one  has  to  be  a  resolute  pessimist 
indeed  to  feel  gloomy!  Moreover,  at  such  a  time  peo- 
ple grow  retrospective  and  seeing  the  past  through  a 
mellowed  glow  like  to  talk  about  it.  Then  they  cast 
up  the  day's  accounts. 

The  evening  had  been  quiet  and  they  were  willing 
that  it  should  be  so.  The  young  governor  was  still 
in  his  office  at  the  Capitol,  looking  over  papers — ap- 
plications for  the  pardon  of  convicts,  legislative  meas- 
ures requiring  his  signature  or  veto,  and  all  the  great 
bulk  of  business  that  must  pass  through  a  governor's 
hands.  At  this  time  of  the  year  he  often  stayed  at  his 
office  until  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  drive,  Clarice?"  asked 
Lucy  Hastings. 

"Very,"  Clarice  replied  without  any  attempt  at 
concealment,  and  even  with  a  trace  of  enthu- 
siasm. "The  country  was  beautiful — you  know  how 


90  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

beautiful   it   can    be   in   winter— I   even   thought   it 
looked  romantic." 

Mary  Pelham  smiled  faintly,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  Mr.  Guthrie?"  asked  Lucy,  "How  do  you 

like  him?" 

"I  know  that  he  is  a  particular  friend  of  the  Gov- 
ernor and  yourself,"  replied  Clarice,  "and  hence  I  am 
afraid  not  to  like  him.  But,  really,  I  do  like  him  for 

himself." 

She  paused,  and  gazed  thoughtfully  into  the  coals, 
which  were  forming  themselves  into  glowing  castles 
and  churches.  The  other  two  said  nothing. 

"Yes,  I  like  him  for  his  own  sake,"  she  continued, 
her  voice  as  meditative  as  her  gaze.  "He  seemed  to 
me  a  little  odd  in  several  particulars— neglecting  some 
of  the  things  that  are  valued  by  the  people  to  whom  I 
am  accustomed,  but— he  might  be  taught." 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  he  can  learn,"  replied  Lucy 
quietly,  "that  is,  if  he  should  have  the  right  kind  of  a 

teacher." 

Mary  Pelham  smiled  again,  but  Clarice  did  not 
notice  it;  she  was  still  gazing  into  the  red  coals,  and 
her  mind  was  somewhere  else. 

"You  spoke  of  the  Count's  coming  to  America  soon," 
said  Lucy,  who  had,  to  a  singular  degree,  the  gift  of  mild 
tenacity.  "Has  he  decided?" 

A  slight  frown  appeared  on  Clarice's  face,  and  in  a 
moment  she  was  ashamed  of  herself  because  the  men- 
tion of  Raoul's  name  had  disturbed  her.  Then  she 
created  his  image  in  her  mind's  eye  and  she  smiled. 

Raoul's  gayety,  his  easy  manners,  his  unimpeachable 
taste  in  neckties,  the  easy  grace  that  he  showed  in  any 
position,  appealed  to  her.  He  pleased  her  eye  because 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  91 

he  not  only  looked  well  in  any  place,  but  was  also  orna- 
mental. And  then,  too,  as  her  mother  had  said  truly, 
he  was  of  such  an  old  family.  His  ancestors  had 
served  in  three  of  the  Crusades,  and  there  was  royal 
blood  half  a  dozen  generations  back — it  was  not  well 
to  inquire  too  closely  into  its  origin — but  it  was  there. 
She  remembered  how  easy  and  restful  Raoul  was. 
She  forgot  that  time  when  she  had  the  faintest  suspicion 
that  he  believed  himself  to  have  condescended,  and  she 
felt  a  desire  to  see  him  again — he  bothered  her  with  no 
troublesome  questions. 

"He  is  coming,"  she  responded  at  last,  "but  I  do 
not  know  definitely  when  it  will  be;  in  the  spring, 
perhaps." 

"  If  he  comes  this  winter,  I  hope  that  you  will  bring 
him  down  here,"  said  Lucy.  "If  he  really  wants  to 
see  our  American  life,  he  cannot  see  it  in  the  small 
circles  of  our  large  cities.  There,  I  hear  Paul's  foot- 
steps, so  I'll  tell  you  good  night." 

She  went  out  leaving  Clarice  and  Mary  together. 
Mary  sat  only  a  minute  or  two,  but  when  she  arose  and 
reached  the  door,  she  said, 

"I  admire  Mr.  Guthrie  for  many  things,  and  most 
of  all  because  of  his  devotion  to  his  friends." 

Then  she  went  out  before  Clarice  could  reply. 

Guthrie,  meanwhile,  had  gone  to  his  dinner  after 
leaving  the  Governor's  house,  and  then  he  strolled 
into  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  the  news-centre  of  the  capi- 
tal. He  quickly  saw  that  he  would  have  but  little  to 
add  to  his  brief  despatch  filed  in  the  afternoon,  and, 
when  he  returned  from  the  telegraph  office  to  the  hotel, 
he  was  joined  by  Tommy  Newlands,  the  assistant 
clerk  of  the  House. 


92  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"There's  no  news  here,  Billy,"  said  Newlands,  slip- 
ping his  arm  into  Guthrie's,  an  act  that  Guthrie  never 
liked.  "Don't  waste  your  time,  but  come  up  to  my 
room;  I've  got  something  really  important." 

Tommy  was  a  slender  youth  with  mild  blue  eyes,  a 
confiding  air,  and  the  most  honest  face  in  the  world; 
and  he  spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  and  impres- 
siveness  that  Guthrie  was  persuaded  and  went  with 
him. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is  when  we  get  there,"  said 
Tommy  in  a  mysterious  whisper. 

His  room  was  across  the  street  in  a  boarding-house, 
and,  when  they  reached  it,  Tommy  carefully  locked 
themselves  in,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
produced  a  large  porfolio  from  a  bureau  drawer,  waved 
Guthrie  to  a  chair,  and  took  another  himself. 

"Just  listen  to  it,  Billy,"  he  said,  smiling  his  child- 
like smile,  "I  wrote  it  all  to-day,  and  I  think  it's  the 
best  I've  ever  done." 

Guthrie  arose  in  alarm,  and  his  brow  became  men- 
acing. 

"Look  you,  Tommy  Newlands!"  he  cried.  "Have 
you  brought  me  over  here  and  locked  me  up  in  your 
room  in  order  that  you  may  force  me  to  listen  to  your 
original  poetry?" 

"Why,  Billy,"  exclaimed  Newlands,  "I  intended 
that  you  should  be  the  very  first  to  hear  it." 

"I'd  rather  be  the  last,"  said  Guthrie  defiantly. 
"But  answer  me  one  question,  Tommy.  Have  you 
ever  had  a  line  of  your  poetry  published  ? " 

"Not  yet,"  replied  Newlands  confidently,  "but  the 
last  editor  who  returned  my  verses  wrote  me  that  they 
contained  promise,  though  they  were  not  exactly  suited 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  93 

to  his  needs.  I  think  that  looks  favourable,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes — from  your  point  of  view.  But  I  won't 
listen  to  any  of  it  until  it  is  published.  It  takes  the 
edge  off  either  prose  or  poetry  to  hear  it  read  in  manu- 
script. It's  so  much  better  in  print." 

"But  we  are  here,  and  everything  is  so  handy,"  en- 
treated Newlands. 

"  No,  I  won't  stand  for  it,  and,  if  you  don't  produce 
that  key  and  unlock  the  door  at  once,  I'll  say  in  the 
Times  that  you're  the  very  worst  assistant  clerk  of  the 
House  the  Legislature  has  known  in  a  history  of  more 
than  a  hundred  years." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that,  Billy?"  pleaded  Newlands. 

"I  would,"  replied  Guthrie  gravely.  "Just  think 
of  the  alternative,  Tommy!" 

Newlands  reluctantly  produced  the  key,  and  unlocked 
the  door. 

"I  thought  to  find  in  you  a  sympathetic  soul.  We 
are  both  writers,  you  know,"  he  said  reproachfully. 

"One  of  us  isn't,"  said  Guthrie.  "Tommy,  I'm 
your  friend,  as  you  know,  but  you  mustn't  take  advan- 
tage of  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  think  you  are  an  ad- 
mirable assistant  clerk  of  the  House — you  write  such  a 
nice,  round  hand.  Now,  come  along.  Let's  go  over 
to  the  hotel,  and  talk  politics." 

"I  do  not  care  for  politics,"  said  Newlands.  "It's 
a  coarse  and  common  subject.  It  does  not  appeal  to 
one's  finer  nature.  I  do  my  work  in  the  House  be- 
cause I  want  my  bread,  but  I  take  no  other  interest  in 
it  whatever.  Neither  do  I  care  for  those  common  and 
pushing  men  about  us.  A  higher  type  appeals  to  me." 

Guthrie  laughed.     He  was  only  a  year  older  than 


94 

Tommy  Newlands,  but  he  felt  as  if  the  difference  were 
ten  years  instead  of  one.  Tommy  with  his  desire  to 
shun  all  the  hard  knocks— with  his  instinct  always  to 
confound  strength  with  mere  roughness,  seemed  to 
him  to  have  in  him  something  womanish,  for  which 
Guthrie  felt  contempt;  yet  he  liked  him,  his  amiabil- 
ity and  honesty. 

"Come,  Tommy,"  he  repeated.  "These  are  much 
better  people  than  you  think.  Men  in  working  clothes 
look  rougher  than  those  in  evening  dress,  but  it  may 
be  looks  only.  Come,  it  will  do  you  good." 

But  Newlands  was  obstinate;  they  could  neither 
amuse  nor  instruct  him,  he  said,  and  Guthrie  leaving 
him  returned  to  the  hotel.  Jimmy  Warfield  was  sit- 
ting in  a  corner,  singularly  silent  for  him,  but  he  gave 
Guthrie  a  slight  signal,  and  then  strolled  quietly  into 
the  hall.  After  a  discreet  wait,  Guthrie  followed,  and 
the  two  walked  down  the  long  hall  to  the  side  entrance 
where  they  were  alone. 

"Billy,"  said  Warfield,  "if  I  give  you  an  important 
piece  of  news,  will  you  pledge  your  word  not  to  use  it 
to-night." 

"Are  you  sure  that  I  could  not  get  it  except  from 
you?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"I'm  released  from  my  promise,  if  anybody  else 
should  come  to  me  of  his  own  volition  and  tell  it  to  me  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"All  right;   I  promise.     What  is  it?" 

Warfield  showed  slight  signs  of  agitation.  "Billy," 
he  said,  "they  are  going  to  impeach  Carton,  or  try  it." 

Guthrie  looked  incredulous. 

"Why,  that's  moonshine!"  he  said.     "Such  a  thing 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  95 

was  never  done  in  this  State — not  even  under  the  worst 
political  or  factional  pressure!" 

"It's  going  to  be  tried  all  the  same,"  said  Warfield 
with  emphasis,  "and  I  tell  you,  Mr.  William  Guthrie, 
it  will  stir  this  State  from  centre  to  circumference! 
Carton,  with  his  high  and  haughty  ways,  has  made  lots 
of  enemies,  and  besides  there  are  many  men  against 
him  in  this  matter  who  believe  he  has  done  wrong. 
I've  got  it  from  a  straight  source;  it's  absolutely  true, 
and  it's  coming  quick." 

"Does  Carton  know  of  it?" 

"Not  yet;  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
Oughtn't  we  to  warn  him  ?  If  we  don't,  the  thing  is 
likely  to  burst  upon  him  and  catch  him  unprepared, 
and  then,  without  time  to  think,  he's  likely  to  do  some- 
thing hot-tempered  and  rash." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Guthrie. 

"In  his  room.  He  came  into  the  lobby  about  eight 
o'clock,  and  spent  half  an  hour — as  lordly  as  you 
please — then  he  stalked  off  upstairs.  But  I  walked 
down  the  hall  in  front  of  his  room  fifteen  minutes  ago, 
and  I  saw  the  light  shining  under  his  door.  I  know 
that  he's  sitting  there,  glowering.  They've  struck  him 
in  two  ways:  they  are  threatening  him  with  the  ruin 
of  all  his  political  ambitions,  and  Mary  Pelham's  folks, 
since  they've  heard  of  this  thing,  are  putting  all  sorts 
of  pressure  on  her  to  make  her  give  him  up." 

"Come  on,"  said  Guthrie,  always  ready  to  act  in 
an  emergency.  "I  think  we'd  better  tell  him  at 
once." 

The  light  was  still  shining  under  Carton's  door,  and 
Guthrie  knocked  briskly,  but  received  no  answer. 

"Let  us  in,  Carton,"  shouted  Warfield  through  the 


96  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

keyhole.    "It  is  Guthrie  and  I,  Guthrie  and  Warfield, 
and  we  must  speak  to  you." 

"Come  in!"  replied  Carton,  and,  pushing  open  the 
door,  they  entered. 

Carton  was  sitting  at  the  window,  looking  vaguely 
out  at  the  darkness.  Warfield  had  surmised  truly:  he 
was  "glowering."  But  Guthrie's  first  sensation  was 
of  pity.  Carton's  pride  seemed  to  have  slipped  from 
him  for  the  moment  while  he  was  sitting  there  alone, 
and  his  attitude  was  full  of  depression  and  despair. 
That  one  so  strong  should  feel  crushed  and  show  it 
gave  Guthrie  a  painful  thrill. 

3  Guthrie  and  Warfield  exchanged  glances.  War- 
field's  asked :  "  Is  it  the  Speakership  or  the  girl  ?  "  and 
Guthrie's  replied:  "Both."  Carton  turned  his  head 

wearily. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "it's  good  of  you  to  come  here  and 


see  me. 


*;  LUC. 

"Well,"  replied  Warfield  cheerily,  "you  look  so  gay 
and  frivolous,  sitting  there  by  the  window,  that  we  think 
we  ought  to  have  a  share  in  the  sport." 

"You're  welcome  to  all  the  fun  that's  going,"  said 
Carton,  smiling.  "But  sit  down." 

"They  seated  themselves  and  then  there  were  a  few 
moments  of  embarrassed  silence,  because  Carton 
glanced  at  them  inquiringly,  as  if  he  wished  to  know 
why  they  came,  seeing  at  once  that  it  was  no  mere 
social  visit.  Warfield  looked  at  Guthrie,  and  Guthrie 
looked  at  Warfield.  At  last  Jimmy  cleared  his  throat 
defiantly,  as  much  as  to  say:  "I  vnU  speak  even  i 
what  I  say  is  unwelcome!" 

"Look  here,  Phil,  you  know  that  Billy  and 
good  friends  of  yours,"  he  began  irrelevantly,  "and 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  97 

you've  got  lots  more  friends  in  the  Legislature  and 
throughout  the  State." 

"  Now  I  know  that  your  news  is  personal  to  me  and 
unpleasant,"  said  Carton,  speaking  clearly  and  deci- 
sively. Suddenly  he  put  on  his  fighting  habit.  His 
figure  expanded  and  stiffened,  and  his  look  was  chal- 
lenging. 

"It  is  both,"  said  Guthrie. 

"Then,"  said  Carton,  "I  thank  you  two  for  coming 
to  me  with  it,  because  I  know  that  you  come  to  warn 
me  and  stand  by  me  and  not  to  hurt  me." 

"That's  so!"  said  Warfield,  feeling  great  relief. 
Then  he  continued:  "Now,  Phil,  I  won't  tell  you 
just  how  I  found  this  out,  but  it  is  true.  This  fight 
on  you  is  even  bolder  and  more  bitter  than  you  think 
it  is.  Your  enemies — and  I  don't  know  just  who  is 
leading  them — are  going  to  push  it  to  the  utmost. 
They  are  going  to  try  to  expel  you,  to  impeach  you, 
not  merely  to  drive  you  from  the  House,  but  to  dis- 
franchise you,  to  deprive  you  of  your  rights  as  a  citizen." 

"Why,  such  a  thing  was  never  done  in  this  State!" 
exclaimed  Carton,  unconsciously  repeating  Guthrie's 
own  comment. 

"I  know  it,  but  they  mean  to  do  it  now,  if  they  can," 
said  Warfield. 

"And  I  should  be  a  marked  man  all  my  life,  a 
pariah!"  exclaimed  Carton,  for  the  moment  aghast. 
But  in  another  moment  all  his  courage  returned. 
"They  can't  do  it!"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Jimmy  Warfield,  "we'll  give  'em  a  fight 
they'll  never  forget!" 

"I  think  I  can  swing  the  Times'*  said  Guthrie. 

Carton,  despite  his  effort  to  control  himself,  showed 


98  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

agitation,  and  walked  back  and  forth  in  the  room.  He 
saw  clearly  that  his  personal  happiness  and  his  whole 
political  future  alike  were  at  stake.  Everything  told 
him  to  be  cautious,  to  show  the  wisdom  ^of  the  serpent, 
but  also  every  instinct  in  him  rose  against  the  use  of 
what  is  called  diplomacy.  He  wanted  to  speak  out 
against  these  men,  to  tell  Pursley  just  what  he  thought 
of  him  and  to  defy  him.  But  he  was  conscious,  too, 
that  Guthrie  and  Warfield  were  watching  him,  and 
while  he  could  have  ridden  rough-shod  over  Warfield's 
opinion,  he  hesitated  when  confronted  by  Guthrie. 

Yet  Guthrie  did  not  say  much;  he  felt  himself  to 
be  to  a  certain  extent  an  outsider— that  is,  he  was  not 
really  a  part  of  the  Legislature,  his  mission  in  the  capi- 
tal being  the  collection  of  news.     Hence  by  suggestion 
and  brief  interjected  words  he  pointed  out  to  Warfield 
the  line  of  argument  he  should  adopt  with  Carton. 
Under  the  deft  hand  of  his  second,  Warfield  gave 
good  advice.     The  other  side,  he  said,  was  showing 
craft  and  cunning  at  every  stage  of  the  battle;  their 
forces  had  been  masked  from  the  beginning  and  were 
still  masked;  no  hostile  hand  was  yet  in  sight  save 
Pursley's;    he   was  trumpeter,   standard-bearer,   van- 
guard—everything  so    far;   Carton   then    should    not 
waste  his  temper  and  his  strength  striking  at  an  invis- 
ible foe.  . 

Warfield  had  the  gift  of  smooth  speech  by  indirec- 
tion if  he  chose,  and  under  his  persuasive  words,  Car- 
ton dismissed  the  slight  agitation  that  he  had  shown. 
"Boys,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I  don't  know  how  I  ever 
can  reward  you  for  the  way  that  you  stand  by  me." 

His  words  were  brief  but  full  of  feeling.     Warfield 
laughed   and  said  lightly: 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  99 

"Nonsense,  if  I  ever  get  into  trouble  I  expect  you  to 
do  at  least  five  times  as  much  for  me." 

They  left  him  and  again  he  sat  down  by  the  window 
and  began  to  gaze  vaguely  into  the  darkness. 

The  second  day  following  was  Saturday,  and  an  ex- 
cursion had  been  arranged  to  Mount  Eagle,  the  great 
stock-farm  in  the  very  finest  part  of  the  lowlands, 
about  fifteen  miles  from  the  capital.  This  noble 
place  is  the  pride  of  the  State.  Covering  thousands 
of  acres  of  gently  rolling  hills  and  valleys,  it  is  unsur- 
passed for  beauty  and  fertility.  Here  since  the  early 
days  have  been  bred  race-horses  that  sell  for  their 
weight  in  silver  and  more,  and  their  fame  has  extended 
over  the  world.  Here  breeders  from  all  parts  of  the 
Union  come  to  renew  the  original  and  powerful  strains 
of  blood.  The  sideboards  in  the  house  are  covered 
with  plate,  won  on  a  hundred  courses,  and,  in  a  State 
which  has  the  inborn  love  of  horses,  people  go  every 
year  as  to  a  shrine  to  see  the  stall  in  which  was  born 
the  colt  that  successively  broke  the  world's  one-,  two-, 
three-,  and  four-mile  records.  The  owners  never  bet 
on  their  own  horses,  but  run  them  for  pride  and  glory. 

A  number  of  members  of  the  Legislature,  ladies  of 
the  political  families,  and  other  guests  had  been  in- 
vited to  Saturday  luncheon  at  Mount  Eagle — the  Legis- 
lature never  meets  on  Saturday.  Guthrie  was  on  the 
list,  and  so  was  Tommy  Newlands.  Five  carriages,  of 
different  types  but  sufficient  to  carry  twenty-four  people, 
had  been  engaged,  and  the  start  was  to  be  made  from 
the  hotel  at  eight  o'clock  of  a  beautiful  frosty  morn- 
ing. 

Guthrie  was  early  at  the  meeting-place,  glad  of  the 
excursion  and  the  holiday  after  a  week  that  he  had 


100  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

found  trying.  Moreover,  he  would  be  with  the  people 
and  the  kind  of  society  that  he  liked  best,  and  he  ex- 
pected enjoyment. 

The  Governor  and  his  wife  with  Miss  Pelham  and 
Miss  Ransome  in  their  train  arrived  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  they  exchanged  joyous  greetings,  for  they  were 
young,  and  their  spirits  rose  in  the  cold,  crisp  morning. 
Then  came  the  gigantic  United  States  Senator,  Mr. 
Dennison,  willingly  following  the  lead  of  his  much 
younger  wife,  and  after  them  the  Speaker  and  Jimmy 
Warfield,  and  Tommy  Newlands,  and  Senator  Cobb, 
and  Mr.  Pike,  and  others,  until  they  formed  a  noisy, 
talkative  group  on  the  hotel  steps. 

Guthrie  glanced  at  Carton.  The  Speaker  and 
Mary  Pelham  had  greeted  each  other  in  a  rather  con- 
strained, formal  manner,  but  Guthrie  was  perhaps  the 
only  one  who  had  noticed  it,  and  the  Speaker  here  in 
the  presence  of  Mary  showed  no  care  in  his  face.  All 
the  vehicles  were  filled  except  the  last,  a  tally-ho  with 
seats  for  six  persons. 

"Is  not  everybody  here?"  asked  Carton,  one  of  the 
little  group  still  standing  on  the  steps. 

"No,"  said  the  driver,  "there  is  one  more  gentleman 
to  come,"  and  at  that  moment  the  gentleman,  in  heavy 
fur  overcoat,  fur  gloves,  and  sealskin  cap,  appeared- 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  Honourable  Mr.  Pursley. 
"How  does  he  happen  to  be  here?"  exclaimed  Car- 
ton, but  in  a  low  voice.  Guthrie  divined  at  once  that 
the  owners  of  Mount  Eagle,  not  knowing  Mr.  Pursley 
as  he  was,  had  invited  him  under  the  impression  that 
he  was  a  leader  in  the  House— a  fact,  within  its  limits. 
All  the  other  carriages  had  gone  on,  and  there  was 
an  embarrassed  pause.  Those  left  upon  the  steps 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  101 

under  the  deft  manipulation  of  Mrs.  Dennison  were 
Miss  Ransome,  Miss  Pelham,  Carton,  Jimmy  War- 
field,  and  Guthrie.  The  ladies  knowing  the  state  of 
affairs  looked  apprehensively  at  the  Speaker  and  Mr. 
Pursley,  but  Guthrie  in  a  moment  seized  the  occasion, 
and  ruthlessly  sacrificed  his  friend  Jimmy  Warfield, 
as  the  good-natured  are  always  put  to  the  knife. 

"You  and  Jimmy  are  to  sit  together,  Mr.  Pursley," 
he  said  cherrily;  "now  up  with  you  two  there  into  the 
seat  next  to  the  driver!"  and  he  half  pushed  them 
into  place.  Then  he  helped  Miss  Ransome  into  the 
next  seat  and  sat  beside  her,  while  the  seat  behind  was 
left  for  Miss  Pelham  and  the  Speaker.  Then  the 
horses  rattled  away  at  a  swift  trot,  and  Guthrie  con- 
gratulated himself  on  his  diplomacy.  Mr.  Pursley 
was  safely  stowed  next  to  a  man  who  did  not  know  how 
to  be  anything  but  polite  and  cheerful,  while  he  and 
Miss  Ransome  sat  as  a  guard  between  the  Speaker  and 
his  pet  hatred.  Then  his  spirits  rose  still  further. 
He  relished  a  dramatic  situation,  and,  after  all,  the 
presence  of  Pursley  lent  to  the  excursion  a  spice  which 
it  would  have  otherwise  lacked.  It  would  rest  with 
him  and  Jimmy  Warfield  to  keep  the  peace  between 
Carton  and  Pursley  for  a  whole  day  and  to  enjoy 
themselves  at  the  same  time — a  task  to  arouse  ambition. 

So  Guthrie  talked  much  more  than  usual  and  in  a 
lighter  manner  than  was  his  custom  until  Clarice 
Ransome  said, 

"Mr.  Guthrie,  I  did  not  know  you  could  be  so  frivo- 
lous!" 

Jimmy  Warfield,  twisting  his  neck,  turned  a  solemn 
countenance. 

"It's  only  his  true  nature  coming  out,  Miss  Ran- 


102  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

some,"  he  said;  "he's  the  official  humourist  of  the 
Times" 

"That's  the  reason  they  send  me  to  report  the  Legis- 
lature," said  Guthrie. 

"Because  they  know  his  reports  will  be  a  joke," 
said  Warfield. 

"No,  to  report  a  joke,"  said  Guthrie. 

"I  will  have  no  fighting,"  said  Clarice  in  mock  alarm, 
"between  the  Fourth  Estate  and,  and " 

"The  lost  estate,"  replied  Guthrie. 

"Oh,  well,  as  a  body  we  have  our  redeeming  qual- 
ities ! "  said  Warfield.  "  At  least  we  are  a  refuge.  You 
know,  Miss  Ransome,  down  in  some  of  the  country 
counties,  when  they  develop  a  smart  young  lawyer 
that  they're  a  bit  afraid  of,  the  old  farmers  get  together 
and  say,  'We'll  just  send  him  to  the  Legislature 
where  he  can't  do  us  any  harm,  but  can  do  the  other 
fellers.'" 

"And  did  they  send  you  here  on  that  account,  Mr. 
Warfield?"  asked  Clarice  serenely. 

Warfield  held  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"Behold  my  importance!"  he  said.  "I  hail  from  the 
city,  and  Carton  is  continually  recognising  me  as  the 
gentleman  from  the  Third  Ward,  but  Miss  Ransome 
does  not  remember  it  a  day." 

"Jimmy,  you  must  speak  twice  as  often  as  you  do, 
and  get  noticed,"  said  Guthrie. 

"Do  you  want  him  to  exclude  all  the  others?"  asked 
Carton. 

"I  hope  he'll  leave  a  few  minutes  for  me,"  said  Mr. 
Pursley,  with  the  evident  intention  of  being  amiable. 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Warfield.  "I'm  thinking  of  never 
making  another  speech  again.  There  was  a  fellow 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  103 

here  last  session  from  one  of  the  western  counties. 
He  never  opened  his  mouth  the  whole  session,  but  you 
could  fairly  see  his  reputation  for  wisdom  growing. 
People  said  that  when  Horton  of  Bond  County  did 
speak,  he  would  say  something.  He  never  did  speak, 
but  it  made  no  difference.  People  said,  'Just  you 
wait;  look  what  an  amount  of  reserve  strength  is 
there!'  Now,  I  had  been  speaking  brilliantly  all  the 
session,  saying  solid  truths  in  the  most  terse,  epigram- 
matic and  illuminating  manner,  and  I  got  no  praise 
at  all,  and,  instead  of  me,  the  Legislature  elected  Carton 
to  the  Speakership  this  term.  But,  after  all,  that's  no 
credit  to  him.  In  a  legislature,  ladies,  a  Speaker  is  the 
only  man  who  can't  speak;  so  always,  in  order  to  sup- 
press him  and  for  the  general  credit,  we  elect  the  worst 
talker  of  us  all  to  that  position." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  but  Mary  Pelham  said: 
"Two  weeks  ago,  I  read  a  speech  by  Mr.  Carton  in 
the  Times;  how  do  you  account  for  that  Mr.  War- 
field?" 

"Carton  never  made  that  speech,"  Warfield  replied, 
"It  was  written  by  Guthrie  there  and  attributed  to 
him,  and,  as  it  rather  took  with  the  people,  Phil  accepts 
it.  We're  all  in  the  secret  here,  at  the  capital,  but,  of 
course,  we  can't  betray  a  fellow-member.  It's  like 
that  jury  out  in  one  of  the  mountain  counties  where 
they  are  rather  fond  of  shooting  at  each  other.  They 
were  trying  a  man  for  severely  wounding  one  of  his 
neighbours;  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  shooting — 
the  man  didn't  even  deny  it,  but  the  jury  returned  a 
verdict  of  acquittal,  and  when  the  astonished  judge 
asked  them  why,  the  foreman  replied:  'Of  course 
he  is  guilty — we  all  know  that — but  if,  in  a  little  case 


104  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

like  this,  we  fellows  don't  stand  together,  what's  to 
become  of  our  privileges?" 

"It's  lucky  that  Mr.  Pike  is  in  the  next  carnage! 

said  Guthrie. 

"Oh!  I  should  have  located  that  story  in  the  low- 
lands, if  he  had  been  here,"  replied  Warfield  airily, 
"but  it  tells  the  truth  about  the  mountaineers,  all  the 
same.  They  won't  give  up  their  feuds  because  it's 
a  time-honoured  custom,  and,  if  you  were  to  dissect 
Mr.  Pike  himself,  you  would  find  this  feeling  right  in 
his  marrow." 

The  driver  increased  his  speed  a  little,  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  overtook  the  next  carriage  in  which 
Mr.  Pike  was  sitting,  silent  and  solemn.  Jimmy  War- 
field  upbraided  him  for  his  melancholy  looks,  and  Mrs. 
Dennison  replied  for  him  that  it  was  due  to  his  being 
a  Republican. 

"It's  his  conscience ! "  said  Jimmy  Warfield,  1  don  t 
see  how  any  man  can  be  a  Republican  and  have  a  sound 

conscience!" 

Mr.  Pike  was  the  only  Republican  in  the  party,  and 
they  jested  with  him  at  some  length  on  the  bad  com- 
plexion of  his  politics,  all  of  which  he  took  in  good  part, 
merely  replying  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  enemies. 
Guthrie  was  struck  by  his  use  of  the  phrase  "in  the 
midst  of  enemies,"  and  by  the  underlying  sadness  in 
Mr.  Pike's  eyes.  He  remembered,  too,  the  scene  on 
the  raft,  and  he  was  sure  the  mountain  member  was 
really  in  trouble.  But  no  one  else  noticed,  so  good 
was  Mr.  Pike's  concealment,  and  the  excursion 
was  all  high  spirits  — even  Carton  and  Pursley, 
separated  by  the  craft  and  guile  of  Guthrie  and 
Warfield,  forgot  their  enmity,  and  Carton,  from 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  105 

sympathy   as    well    as   pride,  joined    in   the  flow  of 
geniality. 

From  the  crest  of  a  gentle  slope,  they  caught  the  first 
view  of  Mount  Eagle  and  its  five  thousand  acres  within 
a  ring  fence  of  stone.  The  frosty  sun  glistened  in  alter- 
nate streaks  of  silver  and  gold  on  the  white  walls  and 
the  red  roofs  of  buildings,  and  before  them,  mile  after 
mile  of  hill  and  valley,  lay  the  pleasant  country,  beauti- 
ful even  in  the  winter  robe  of  brown.  It  told  every- 
where of  fertility  and  comfort. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  the  Indians  hated  to  give  it 
up,"  said  Mary  Pelham. 

"The  Indians  never  had  it,"  said  Jimmy  Warfield 
with  his  usual  vivacity.  "It's  one  of  the  weaknesses 
of  an  advancing  civilisation,  Miss  Pelham,  to  lament 
the  passing  of  a  hideous,  painted  savage,  and  to  delude 
itself  with  the  idea  that  it  has  committed  a  crime  in 
planting  enlightenment  in  the  place  of  barbarism.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  northern  and  southern  tribes 
merely  met  and  fought  here  and  this  land  was  occupied 
by  nobody.  Here  we  are  now;  this  is  the  gate  that 
leads  to  Mount  Eagle." 

They  drove  over  a  white  road  between  a  noble  avenue 
of  trees  toward  the  house,  a  great  rambling  structure 
of  stone,  redolent  of  ease  and  dignity. 

"It  reminds  me  of  an  old  chateau  in  France,"  said 
Clarice  Ransome. 

"Only  this  is  our  own,"  said  Guthrie. 

"I  begin  to  think  that  you  are  very  much  of  a  pa- 
triot," said  Clarice. 

"So  I  am,"  replied  Guthrie,  "and  I  give  you  fair 
warning,  Miss  Ransome,  that  a  lot  of  us  mean  to  make 
you  one,  too." 


106  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"I  am  already  making  more  progress  than  I  antici- 
pated," she  replied  frankly. 

"And  here  we  are  at  the  house,"  said  Jimmy  War- 
field,  "and  there  stand  our  host  and  hostess  on  the 
steps." 

Guthrie  helped  Clarice  out  of  the  carriage,  and  her 
fingers  tingled  slightly  even  through  her  gloves,  when 
his  hand  clasped  hers.  Had  Guthrie  been  looking, 
he  would  have  seen  a  faint  colour  rise  in  her  face.  Then 
Clarice  took  a  resolve:  she  had  been  too  much  with 
Guthrie,  and  she  would  make  the  return  journey  in 
another  carriage.  She  began  to  have  a  suspicion  that 
she  was  being  managed  by  somebody,  and  she  resented 
it.  Nevertheless,  Guthrie  was  by  her  side  as  the  guests 
were  received,  and  thus  they  passed  into  the  house. 

They  were  in  a  wide  hall,  running  the  full  length  of 
the  building — a  wall  hung  with  portraits  and  the 
stuffed  heads  of  deer  and  bison.  In  open  rooms  on 
either  side,  great  fires  roared  and  crackled  in  wide  fire- 
places. 

"To  enjoy  this  fully  one  must  have  driven  fifteen 
miles  in  the  cold  as  we  have  done,"  said  Jimmy  War- 
field. 

The  men  turned  off  to  the  right  and  the  women  to 
the  left.  The  men  closed  the  door  behind  them  when 
they  entered  a  room  in  which  a  fire  was  roaring  and  the 
black  servants  were  already  clinking  the  glasses. 

"This  is  glorious  after  a  long  ride  in  the  cold,"  said 
Jimmy  Warfield.  "Here's  to  all  our  healths!" 

When  they  had  refreshed  themselves,  they  met  the 
the  ladies  again  in  the  hall,  and  began  their  trip  about 
the  place,  the  stables  being  the  first  point  of  departure. 
It  was  Clarice's  plan  to  go  with  the  Senator  and  Mrs. 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  107 

Dennison,  but  she  found  herself,  instead,  between  Guth- 
rie  and  Mr.  Pike,  and  she  did  not  know  how  long  Mr. 
Pike  would  stay.  She  was  not  sure  whether  Guthrie 
or  some  one  else  had  managed  it.  She  yielded,  but 
was  displeased  with  herself  because  she  did  not  feel 
more  reluctance  at  yielding. 

"We  shall  see  some  of  the  most  famous  horses  in  the 
world,"  said  Guthrie,  "but,  to  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you,  most  horses  look  alike  to  me." 

In  a  State  devoted  to  the  horse,  Guthrie  was  not  a 
zealous  horseman.  He  looked  upon  the  horse  as  merely 
one  of  the  adjuncts  of  human  life,  not  its  main  interest; 
but  he  enjoyed  looking  at  them  in  a  place  such  as  this, 
where  they  were  cherished  like  children.  In  the  first 
stall,  and  gazing  at  the  visitors  out  of  mild  incurious 
eyes,  was  the  bay  stallion  that  had  won  as  a  two-year- 
old  the  great  Futurity  in  New  York,  and  the  next  year 
both  the  Brooklyn  Handicap  and  the  Suburban. 

"He's  got  lots  more  sense  than  some  people,  and  he's 
as  gentle  as  a  child,"  said  the  black  trainer. 

Clarice  held  out  some  oats,  and  the  lazy  king  of  a 
horse  nibbled  them  gently  from  her  hand. 

"Of  course,  no  horse  would  hurt  you,  Miss  Ran- 
some,"  said  Jimmy  Warfield. 

Thus  they  paused,  from  stall  to  stall,  inspecting  the 
kings  and  queens  of  the  turf,  some  resting  between 
campaigns,  others  with  all  their  campaigns  done  and 
looking,  as  they  placidly  chewed  their  oats,  as  if  they 
were  meditating  over  old  triumphs.  Then  they  went 
into  the  pasture  where  the  grass  still  lingered  on  the 
sunny  slopes,  and  examined  the  youngsters  with  their 
victories  yet  to  come. 

"The  older  horses  in  the  stables  impress  me  the 


108  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

most,"  said  Mrs.  Dennison.  "What  if  one  could  see 
the  ablest  men  and  women  collected  in  one  company 
in  that  manner!  It  ought  at  least  to  make  an  inter- 
esting society." 

"More  likely  it  would  be  as  dull  as  ditch-water!" 
said  Jimmy  Warfield.  "Everybody  in  it  would  be 
bored  to  death  by  everybody  else!" 

Then  they  went  in  to  luncheon.  Guthrie  always 
remembers  that  luncheon  with  the  keenest  of  pleasure. 
He  was  in  the  best  of  company;  he  was  hungry  and 
his  cares  had  rolled  away.  All  the  tables  had  been 
spread  in  the  larger  dining-room,  and  they  were  cov- 
ered with  a  "hunter's  luncheon,"  that  is,  with  a  lunch- 
eon reminiscent  of  the  State's  early  days,  as  they  had 
been  told  would  be  the  case  when  the  invitations  were 
sent.  There  were  partridges,  wild  turkeys,  venison 
from  the  mountains,  bear  from  Mississippi,  trout  and 
perch  from  the  State's  own  streams,  all  flanked  by 
liquids  of  every  kind. 

"I  foresee  a  better  business  than  making  dry  speeches 
in  the  House!"  said  Jimmy  Warfield. 

Clarice's  conscience  began  to  hurt  her  again,  and,  by 
careful  planning,  she  found  herself  in  a  seat  between 
Senator  Cobb  and  Tommy  Newlands.  Guthrie  was 
some  distance  away,  but  biding  his  time.  Lucy  Hast- 
ings was  on  his  right,  and,  with  an  intuitive  sense  of 
what  was  wise  under  the  circumstances,  he  was  scru- 
pulous in  his  attention  to  her.  Clarice  observed  him, 
and  by  and  by  she  was  sorry  that  his  glance  did  not 
meet  hers.  She  was  conscious  now  that  there  had 
always  been  something  solid  and  interesting  in  Guth- 
rie's  talk;  she  always  had  the  feeling  afterward  that 
it  had  been  stimulating,  and  now,  by  contrast,  the 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  109 

chatter  of  Tommy  Newlands  seemed  unusually  light, 
frothy,  and  vapid. 

Tommy  had  a  soul  with  a  large  S.  He  could  not 
abide  the  raw  and  crude.  Strength  appealed  to  him 
less  than  form.  In  fiction,  he  preferred  the  small 
parlour-scenes  of  life,  the  tea-table  tragedies,  which 
loomed  very  large  to  him,  and  in  poetry  his  soul  turned 
with  an  infinite  longing  to  the  vers  de  societc.  He  had 
never  been  abroad,  but  the  Old  World  contained  for 
him  all  there  was  of  art  and  architecture,  and  hence 
Tommy  amid  his  surroundings  was  blase  and  cynical  to 
a  degree  that  often  entertained. 

"I  should  like  to  live  in  a  house  like  this/'  said 
Clarice  to  him  in  the  course  of  their  conversation. 

"I  understand  that  it  has  the  architecture  of  all 
nations  and  the  beauty  of  none,"  replied  Tommy. 

"I  do  not  see  why  that  matters,"  said  Clarice,  "if 
it  is  beautiful,  then  the  rules  do  not  count." 

Senator  Cobb  on  the  other  side  of  her  looked  puzzled. 
He  had  spent  a  life  wrestling  with  men,  and  to  him 
these  things  seemed  unimportant.  The  blood  of  the 
old  Indian-fighters  was  yet  in  his  veins,  and  the  battle 
of  life  had  little  to  do  with  architecture. 

"I  should  think  that  the  first  question  was  com- 
fort," he  said,  "and  it  appears  that  they  have  attained 
it  here." 

But  Tommy  could  scarcely  conceal  his  scorn — these 
rude  men  from  the  hills  always  jarred  upon  his  finer 
fibre.  He  had  a  cult,  and,  as  for  himself,  he  said,  he 
was  fond  of  the  beauty  of  life.  He  preferred  the  fine, 
the  minute,  the  indirect,  the  delicate  shadings,  to  the 
abrupt  and  obvious.  Americans  were  too  material; 
he  was  often  ashamed  of  his  countrymen,  for  they  neg- 


110  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

lected  the  essence  in  favour  of  the  substance.  Most 
of  the  men  were  well  enough  in  their  way,  but  it  must 
be  confessed  that  they  represented  a  low  order  of  devel- 
opment. Those  who  had  the  true  spirit  always  pined 
for  something  higher. 

Clarice  listened  in  some  amusement.  She  read 
Tommy  Newlands  at  once.  She  saw  the  lack  of  ear- 
nestness in  all  that  he  said,  and  knew  that  it  was  an 
affectation,  although  Tommy  himself  believed  it  to  be 
vital  and  real;  it  was  a  feeble  growth  upon  a  feeble  stem. 
But  Senator  Cobb,  whose  experience  of  the  world  was 
in  some  sense  inferior  to  Clarice's,  was  not  amused. 
At  first  he  was  ashamed  for  Tommy,  and  then  he  be- 
came angry.  At  last  he  said  impatiently, 

"Then  I  take  it,  Mr.  Newlands,  that  you  would 
rather  live  on  air  than  on  roast  beef!" 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  so  material  a  thing  as  the 
physical  appetite,"  replied  Tommy.  "I  was  referring 
to  the  finer  and  more  subtle  things  that  are  the  nuances 
of  life."  . 

Senator  Cobb  did  not  know  what  ''nuances"  meant, 
but  his  keen  mind  enabled  him  to  guess. 

"Is  a  continent  like  this  to  be  won  with  men  of  the 
type  you  like?"  he  asked. 

But  Tommy  flew  the  question.  Life  in  the  older 
countries  where  everything  had  settled  into  its  appointed 
place  appealed  to  him;  there  was  more  poetry  in  a  bit 
of  ivy  on  an  old  wall  than  in  any  contest  that  ever  took 
place  in  a  Legislature,  and  thus  he  rambled  on  to  his 
great  satisfaction.  But  Senator  Cobb  shook  his  head 
disapprovingly;  it  did  not  seem  to  him  that  Tommy 
was  dealing  with  the  stuff  of  which  our  lives  are  made. 

Clarice  was  glad  when  Jimmy  Warfield  on  the  other 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  111 

side  of  the  table  came  to  their  relief.  Warfield  beneath 
all  his  lightness  and  good  nature  had  a  penetrating  mind : 
his  feet  never  left  the  earth  nor  did  his  head  reach  the 
clouds.  His  nimble  satire  played  around  Tommy 
with  such  an  easy  touch  that  the  expounder  of  a  cult 
was  not  aware  for  some  time  that  he  was  a  target. 
When  he  saw  it  at  last  he  said  little  more,  because  he 
had  an  instinctive  fear  of  Warfield,  whom  he  regarded 
as  one  of  those  rough  beings  without  a  subconscious 
soul. 

The  luncheon  was  finished,  and  then  they  heard  the 
great  organ  in  the  music-room,  the  finest  in  the  State. 
Guthrie  was  really  fond  of  music,  a  science  of  whose 
theory  and  art  he  knew  nothing,  and  did  not  wish  to 
know  anything.  It  appealed  to  him  as  a  melodious 
voice  expressing  many  emotions,  and  the  knowledge 
of  how  it  was  produced  would  detract  from  the  charm 
of  hearing  it.  But  he  never  talked  about  his  love  of 
music;  he  indulged  in  no  cant,  and  he  advocated  no 
school.  Therefore,  he  was  able  to  enjoy. 

Clarice  wandered  away  from  Tommy  Newlands, 
finding  that  his  "protection"  had  become  a  burden. 
His  chatter  ceased  to  be  amusing,  and,  when  Guth- 
rie took  the  vacant  chair  beside  her,  she  neither  indi- 
cated nor  felt  any  objection.  After  all,  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  return  to  him,  because  here  was  something  tangible 
and  solid  upon  which  one  could  get  a  mental  grasp. 
Guthrie  said  nothing,  as  the  music  had  begun,  and 
Clarice,  too,  was  soon  affected  by  the  solemnity  and 
majesty  of  the  organ  tones. 

She  glanced  presently  at  Guthrie's  face,  and  she  was 
astonished  at  the  change  she  saw  there.  He  had  im- 
pressed her  hitherto  as  one  so  intensely  in  the  present 


112  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

that  he  had  no  time  for  dreams  or  reflections.  Now 
he  was  far  away  on  the  wings  of  fancy,  and,  after  all,  he 
did  have  imagination,  ideality,  and  sentiment.  She, 
too,  was  modern  and  practical;  but  the  springs  of  ro- 
mance were  not  dry  within  her,  and  she  liked  this  new 
phase  that  she  beheld  in  Guthrie,  softening  and  refin- 
ing him  to  a  woman's  standard. 

"Music  of  that  type,"  said  Guthrie  when  they  were 
leaving  the  room,  "is  the  only  thing  that  can  bring 
absolute  forgetfulness  of  the  world  besides.  It  really 
takes  one  quite  out  of  oneself." 

He  said  it  simply,  quite  without  affectation — so 
simply  that  no  reply  was  needed,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether into  the  drawing-room.  For  the  moment, 
Count  Raoul  d'Estournelle,  and  his  coming  visit  to 
America  were  forgotten  by  both. 

"We  shall  start  on  the  return  journey  in  an  hour," 
said  Guthrie,  "and  I  hope  that  you  will  permit  me  to 
occupy  the  same  seat  in  the  carriage  beside  you.  I 
feel  that  I  am  in  some  sense  your  guide,  and  also  to 
save  trouble  in  rearranging  the  party,  it  was  decided 
that  we  should  go  back  just  as  we  came." 

"Then  why  ask  me  when  it  is  my  orders  to  say  yes  ?" 

Guthrie  laughed. 

"I  want  you  to  be  a  willing  victim  and  to  admit  it," 
he  replied. 

She  smiled  but  did  not  say  no,  and  left  him  to  get 
her  wraps.  Out  of  his  presence,  her  conscience 
assailed  her  once  more.  She  had  firmly  resolved  not 
to  be  his  immediate  company  on  the  return  journey; 
she  had  broken  her  resolve,  and  it  not  two  hours  old ! 
She  felt  once  more  that  she  was  doing  a  wrong  to  Raoul, 
and  she  could  see  her  mother's  cold,  disapproving  eye. 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  113 

She  comforted  herself  with  the  old  and  convenient 
proverb  that,  in  Rome,  one  must  do  as  the  Romans  do, 
and,  as  she  was  thrown  with  this  group,  she  must  ac- 
cept in  it  the  role  that  chance  seemed  to  have  marked 
for  her. 

Guthrie  turned  down  the  narrow  hall  toward  the 
room  set  aside  for  the  men,  where  his  overcoat  was 
hanging,  and  saw  a  broad  figure  just  ahead  of  him. 
The  figure  belonged  to  Mr.  Pursley,  and  he  was  hail- 
ing Carton  who  stood  in  front  of  a  picture  near  the 
doorway. 

"It  would  be  pleasant,  wouldn't  it  Carton,  to  have 
a  place  like  this  ?  "  he  said  with  an  air  of  friendliness. 

Carton  did  not  reply,  but  studied  the  picture  more 
intently  than  ever;  and  Mr.  Pursley,  who  was  delicate 
neither  of  perception  nor  sensibility,  repeated  his  re- 
mark. Then  Carton  turned  about,  his  face  white  with 
anger,  and  his  figure  stiffening  into  the  haughty  pose 
with  which  Guthrie  was  so  familiar. 

"Pursley,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  cannot  say  that  I  hate 
you — that  dignifies  you  too  much,  but  I  do  despise 
you.  I  told  you  once  before  that  I  wished  you  not  to 
speak  to  me  again." 

"  I  regarded  it  as  the  request  of  a  foolish  young  man," 
placidly  replied  Mr.  Pursley,  whose  great  strength  lay 
in  his  ability  to  keep  his  temper  under  any  circum- 
stances. 

Helplessness  was  added  to  Carton's  look  of  anger. 
His  eyes  plainly  asked,  "What  can  I  do  when  con- 
fronted by  such  a  man?"  At  last  he  said  lamely: 

"Pursley,  whenever  I  undertake  to  go  anywhere,  I 
shall  find  out  whether  you  are  going,  and  then  I  shall 
stay  away." 


114  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Pursley  laughed,  and  sauntered  into  the  room  in 
search  of  his  coat,  leaving  Carton  frowning  with  cha- 
grin. Guthrie  took  Carton  by  the  arm. 

"Phil,  old  man,"  he  said — they  were  great  friends, 
and  Carton  himself  was  under  thirty — "would  you 
mind  a  little  piece  of  advice  from  me  ?  The  looker-on, 
you  know,  is  always  in  a  better  position  to  judge  than 
the  actor." 

Carton  frowned  again,  but  reluctantly  subdued  his 
pride,  and  consented. 

"It's  this,"  said  Guthrie.  "It's  not  worth  while  to 
attack  a  man  like  Pursley  with  words.  His  thick  skin 
turns  them  off  like  water.  Besides,  he's  a  member  of 
the  House  where  you  will  have  to  meet  him  almost 
every  day,  and  you  give  him  an  advantage  when  you 
lose  your  tongue  and  he  keeps  his." 

"Billy,"  said  Carton,  "it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  say 
this — hurts  me  that  any  one  should  think  it  necessary 
to  say  such  things  to  me,  but  I  suppose  it  is  true.  The 
very  sight  of  the  man  infuriates  me;  I  cannot  help  it." 

"Let's  get  our  overcoats,"  said  Guthrie  quietly. 
"I  think  the  others  are  about  ready  for  the  start." 

Thev  entered  the  room  together,  and  no  other  present 
save  Mr.  Pursley  knew  of  the  brief  encounter.  Guth- 
rie put  on  his  overcoat  and  went  out  on  the  step  in 
front  of  which  the  carriages  were  waiting. 

"I  offer  you  my  condolences,  old  man,"  said  Tommy 
Newlands,  clapping  his  hand  on  Guthrie's  shoulder. 

"Why  so?"  asked  Guthrie. 

"Because  Miss  Ransome  is  going  to  sit  by  me  on  the 
way  back  home.  I  have  just  asked  her  for  the  privi- 
lege and  she  has  consented." 

"See  here,  Tommy,"  said  Guthrie,  "You  can't  cut 


AT  MOUNT  EAGLE  115 

me  out  in  that  fashion.  Miss  Ransome  has  an  engage- 
ment with  me,  and  I  won't  let  her  break  it,  even  if  I 
have  to  kidnap  her." 

Tommy  looked  at  him  aghast. 

"But  she  said  I  could  have  the  seat!"  he  remon- 
strated. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  Guthrie  briskly.  "She 
forgot,  for  the  moment,  her  engagement  with  me.  Ah! 
Miss  Ransome,  the  carriage  is  waiting  for  us  and  here 
is  our  place." 

She  had  appeared  that  moment  upon  the  steps,  her 
cheeks  rosy  with  the  day's  exercise,  and  her  eyes  seek- 
ing Tommy  Newlands.  She  had  resolved  at  the  last 
moment  that  she  would  break  her  unspoken  word,  es- 
cape from  Guthrie,  and  sacrifice  herself  to  Tommy. 
But  she  was  caught  by  the  fowler  ?n  his  net;  almost 
before  she  was  aware  of  it,  Guthrie  was  assisting  her 
into  the  carriage,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  in  the 
seat  beside  her,  while  the  poet  was  left  lamenting  on 
the  steps. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Clarice,  "do  you  know  that  I 
accepted  Mr.  Newlands'  escort  home?" 

"It  was  very  wrong  of  you,"  replied  Guthrie  gravely, 
"to  make  a  promise  which,  you  see,  you  could  not  keep. 
Moreover,  I  claim  to  be  quite  as  good  company  as 
Tommy  Newlands." 

Clarice  was  silent,  overborne  by  him — and  yet  she 
liked  his  masterful  ways.  Had  he  asked  again  for  the 
place,  she  would  not  have  given  it  to  him;  but,  as  he 
took  it  without  asking,  she  was  reconciled.  She  had 
once  more  the  singular  feeling  of  relief  that  a  strong 
personality  brings. 

The  drive  home  was  quieter,  as  the  return  always  is. 


116  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

The  winter  twilight  fell  long  before  they  reached  the 
capital.  The  sun  sank  in  the  west  and  the  dusk  came 
in,  fold  on  fold,  like  a  blanket  over  the  sky,  but  the 
moonlight  glittered  like  silver  through  it  on  the  brown 
woods  and  the  hills.  All  the  world  was  brooding  and 

peaceful. 

"I  think  sometimes  that  winter  is  as  beautiful  as 

summer,"  said  Clarice. 

"It  is,"  replied  Guthrie,  "both  in  its  own  way  and 
because  it  is  the  omen  of  that  which  is  to  come.  What 
is  it  that  Shelley  says— 'if  winter  come,  can  spring  be 
far  behind?'" 

Clarice  looked  up  at  the  star-shot  sky. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  is  it— after  sorrow,  joy." 

All  of  them  were  quiet  and  subdued  when  they 
reached  the  capital,  and  bade  each  other  good  night. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON 

IT  was  Guthrie's  unpleasant  duty  the  next  day  to 
send  a  despatch,  stating  that  the  House  would  en- 
deavour to  impeach  its  Speaker,  Philip  Carton,  a 
young  man  of  obscure  parentage,  who  had  been  held 
up  to  the  boys  of  the  State  during  the  last  three  or  four 
years  as  a  model  of  what  might  be  achieved  in  the  land 
of  opportunity. 

The  news  was  beginning  to  filter  through  other 
sources,  and  he  was  released  from  his  promise  to  War- 
field.  Senator  Cobb  told  him  of  it,  Mr.  Pike  brought 
him  the  story,  and  it  came,  too,  from  many  other 
sources. 

Guthrie  was  informed  also  that  the  powers  behind 
Pursley,  as  Jimmy  Warfield  had  said,  would  not  try 
for  mere  expulsion,  but  for  impeachment  in  due  form, 
carrying  with  it  if  successful  the  loss  of  citizenship. 
The  House  by  a  two-thirds  vote  might  expel  any  of  its 
members,  but  an  impeachment  would  have  to  be  laid 
before  the  Senate,  which  would  resolve  itself  into  a 
trial  court,  and  if  a  two-thirds  majority  could  be  se- 
cured, would  find  the  Speaker  guilty  and  drive  him  in 
disgrace  from  the  Legislature. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  and  pen  that  Guthrie 
wrote  these  things.  He  knew  Carton's  faults,  but  he 
was  confident  of  his  absolute  rectitude,  although  he 

117 


118  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

could  not  overlook  the  formidable  forces  arrayed  against 
him  and  the  belief  in  his  guilt— or  at  least  fault— enter- 
tained by  many  who  really  liked  him. 

The  next  day  the  Times  and  all  the  other  newspapers 
of  the  State  contained  sensational  despatches  from  the 
capital.  Carton  would  be  put  on  trial,  and  the  neces- 
sary methods  of  procedure  foreshadowed  a  long  and 
desperate  fight.  The  whole  State  was  eager  for  the  least 
scrap  of  news  about  it,  and  at  once  parties  formed; 
nor  were  these  parties  always  political.  Men  did  not 
divide  on  the  old  Republican  and  Democratic  lines. 
It  became  a  personal  question,  and  for  the  moment  the 
public  lost  sight  of  the  possible  action  of  the  Republican 
minority  in  both  House  and  Senate.  Yet  it  was  a 
minority  which  at  the  crisis  might  wield  the  balance  of 

power. 

Nor  was  the  feeling  in  the  State  wholly  of  displeasure. 
It  is  a  State  that  loves  a  political  fight— particularly 
if  it  is  waged  about  a  personality;  and,  when  this 
personality  was  of  such  prominence  as  the  Speaker  of 
the  House,  and  the  case  was  so  unusual,  then  the 
promise  for  a  lively  winter  was  very  good  indeed. 
The  newspapers  would  be  filled  with  interesting  reading, 
and,  as  they  followed  the  evidence,  would  also  discuss 
hotly  the  question  of  Carton's  guilt  or  innocence.  To 
the  whole  population,  it  would  be  a  great  battle  with 
themselves  as  the  spectators  and  the  capital  as  the 


arena. 


Clltt.  .       . 

At  the  capital,  however,  many  men  were  occupied 
with  other  things  than  the  mere  panoramic  effect  of 
the  battle.  This  question  of  the  Republican  minority 
was  to  them  an  immediate  and  pressing  matter.  They 
recognised  at  once  the  power  of  the  Republicans,  but 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         119 

they  were  unable  to  say  what  that  party  would  do  with  it. 
Would  they  follow  the  evidence  and  divide  according  to 
their  personal  views,  or  would  they  act  as  a  solid  polit- 
ical body  ?  And,  even  in  the  latter  case,  another  ques- 
tion arose — would  they  be  for  Carton  or  against  him  ? 
By  either  course,  they  could  inflict  damage  upon  the 
prestige  of  the  Democratic  party;  that  is,  by  proving 
their  Speaker  to  be  a  scoundrel,  or  by  saving  an  innocent 
man  from  the  rage  of  a  Democratic  mob. 

There  were  eight  Republican  members  of  the  Senate 
and  thirty-seven  of  the  House,  coming  chiefly  from  the 
mountains,  and  Guthrie  was  quite  sure  that,  when  the 
fight  grew  hot,  Mr.  Pike  would  be  their  leader.  Mr. 
Pike  was  his  very  good  friend  and,  therefore,  he  sought 
him. 

The  Senator  was  in  his  room  in  a  bleak  boarding- 
house — all  the  mountain  members  were  poor,  and  in- 
variably they  had  poor  quarters — but  he  gave  Guthrie 
a  sincere  welcome.  Guthrie  noticed  at  once  that  the 
mountaineer  looked  troubled.  He  pulled  his  whiskers 
nervously,  and  gazed  absently  out  of  the  window. 

"Mr.  Pike,"  said  Guthrie,  "I've  come  to  interview 
you." 

"All  right,  go  ahead,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "What  is  it  you  want  to  know?  About 
the  prospects  for  the  next  wheat  crop  in  the  moun- 
tains? Well,  there  won't  be  any;  we  don't  raise 
wheat." 

"It's  a  political  crop  that  I'm  talking  about.  You 
know  the  charges  against  Carton — a  man  whom  you 
like." 

"Yes,  I  like  him,"  said  Mr.  Pike  meditatively,  as 
he  polished  his  whiskers  with  his  left  hand. 


120  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"And  as  a  Republican  you  are  perhaps  in  a  rather 
unusual  position,  so  far  as  this  case  is  concerned.'' 

"Yes,  in  a  delicate  position — like  a  boy  balancing 
himself  on  the  sharp  edge  of  a  fence-rail." 

Guthrie  smiled.  The  homely  simile  reminded  him 
a  little  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

"Still,"  he  said,  "the  boy  sitting  on  the  sharp  edge 
of  the  fence-rail  can't  stay  there  forever." 

"That's  so,"  said  Mr.  Pike  meditatively,  "but 
nobody  ever  knows  which  way  he's  going  to  jump,  un- 
til he  jumps." 

"But  the  boy  sooner  or  later  has  to  decide,  and,  if 
he  has  a  friend  standing  by  and  looking  on,  he  might 
shout  to  him:  'Look  out,  I'm  coming  this  way!'  or 
'Look  out,  I'm  going  to  jump  that  way!" 

"It  isn't  the  nature  of  a  boy  to  do  that,"  said  Mr. 
Pike,  still  meditatively  polishing  his  whiskers.  "He 
lets  the  jump  speak  for  itself.  Besides,  it  would  spoil 
half  the  fun  if  he  told  the  other  boy  beforehand  what 
he  was  going  to  do." 

Guthrie  gave  up  the  attempt.  He  had  not  had  much 
hope  that  Mr.  Pike  would  declare  himself,  but  he 
wished  to  make  the  trial. 

Jimmy  Warfield  informed  him  an  hour  later  that 
General  Pelham  and  Mrs.  Pelham  had  arrived,  and 
were  in  a  suite  of  rooms  at  the  hotel,  but  were  to  dine 
with  the  Governor  in  the  evening. 

"Of  course,  you  know  why  they  have  come,"  said 
Warfield. 

"Yes,"  replied  Guthrie,  "they  demand  that  their 
daughter's  affianced  shall  be  above  suspicion  even." 
Guthrie  knew  General  Pelham,  and,  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, he  called  on  him  and  his  wife  in  their  rooms. 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         121 

The  General  had  a  great  name  in  the  State  because 
of  his  wealth,  his  ancestors,  his  presence,  and  powerful 
family  connection,  and  the  legends  of  his  military  ser- 
vice. He  had  fought  in  the  Mexican  War  when  but 
a  boy,  and  had  served  on  the  Southern  side  in  the  Civil 
War,  where  his  title  of  general  came  to  him.  Though 
more  than  seventy,  he  was  yet  vigorous  and  extremely 
ruddy.  He  had  long,  snow-white  hair,  fierce  white 
imperial  and  moustaches,  and  as  he  always  wore  black 
clothing  and,  when  out  of  doors,  a  huge,  black  .slouch 
hat,  his  was  a  figure  that  could  not  fail  to  attract  atten- 
tion. His  conversation  was  usually  military  and  remi- 
niscent. Mrs  Pelham  was  a  pale  little  woman  who 
never  said  much. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  the  General  in  a  rumbling 
voice  that  had  in  it  some  of  the  quality  of  a  roar,  "Glad 
to  see  you!  One  always  finds  men  of  your  calling  in 
the  midst  of  the  battle." 

"That's  what  we  are  for,  General,"  said  Guthrie. 

"Just  like  a  soldier,"  rumbled  the  General.  "Man 
I  knew  said  at  Gettysburg,  when  they  were  falling  all 
around  us,  'What  fools  we  are  to  come  here  and  get 
ourselves  killed!'  'Not  so,'  I  replied,  'it's  duty;  if 
duty  says  run  your  head  against  a  cannon-ball,  run  it.' 
He  did  it  two  minutes  later.  Now,  sit  down,  Mr. 
Guthrie,  and  tell  us  all  the  news  of  the  capital.  The 
usual  trifling  lot  of  boys  here,  I  suppose." 

The  General  was  a  prodigious  politician,  but  he 
merely  skirted  the  edge  of  politics,  delivering  now  and 
then  sweeping  condemnations,  carelessly  waving  away 
a  man  or  a  policy  as  one  would  brush  off  a  fly.  Also, 
in  his  talk,  he  confined  himself  to  general  principles,  and 
usually  he  defined  them  "as  laid  down  by  Jefferson." 


Jefferson  was  always  his  court  of  final  resort,  and,  in  a 
State  where  the  memory  of  Thomas  Jefferson  was  held 
in  great  reverence,  the  General  infallibly  crushed  his 
opponent  by  a  quotation  from  his  writings. 

"Idling  away  its  time!  idling  away  its  time,  of  course, 
just  as  all  the  Legislatures  nowadays  do!"  continued 
the  General.  "A  military  man  would  make  short 
work  of  such  business!  Not  half  of  these  members  are 
fit  for  the  rank  of  corporal!" 

"They  are  doing  the  best  they  can,"  said  Guthrie 

mildly. 

"Just  what  they  said  of  the  piano-player  when  they 
asked  the  audience  not  to  shoot  him,"  rumbled  the 
General.  "Now,  what's  all  this  I  hear  about  the 
Speaker,  Mr.  Carton?  Half  a  dozen  men  have  been 
pouring  tales  into  my  ear  about  him  since  I've  come, 
but  I  know  that  you'll  tell  me  the  facts,  Mr.  Guthrie." 

Guthrie  saw  the  pale  face  of  Mrs.  Pelham  flush  a 
little,  and  her  eyes  show  keen  interest.  He  wondered 
if  this  subdued  little  woman  agreed  with  her  husband 
in  all  things. 

Guthrie  was  fully  aware  that  the  General  knew  as 
much  as  the  public  knew  about  the  Carton  case,  and 
that  what  he  wanted  was  an  opinion.  The  General 
would  seek  to  give  the  impression  that  the  affair  was  of 
no  personal  interest  to  him,  Carton  being  merely  one 
of  "those  trifling  boys." 

So  Guthrie  stated  quietly  his  view  of  the  case,  letting 
his  confidence  in  Carton  be  known,  although  he  took 
care  not  to  proclaim  it  too  loudly.  The  General  lis- 
tened, giving  utterance  to  muffled  "Hums!"  and 
"Ahs!"  but  Guthrie  glanced  once  at  his  pale  little  wife, 
and  saw  a  look  of  gratitude  on  her  face. 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         123 

Guthrie  wondered  that  the  General  should  speak 
to  him  so  frankly  of  Carton  in  this  connection,  which 
was  more  or  less  of  a  family  affair;  but  he  surmised  it 
to  be  a  part  of  the  old  soldier's  policy  to  refer  to  the 
Speaker  as  a  stranger  and  to  give  the  public  that 
impression. 

The  General  ran  his  hand  through  his  shock  of  white 
hair  and  referred  to  the  great  men  with  whom  he  had 
been  associated  intimately,  General  Scott,  and  General 
Taylor,  and  General  Lee,  and  others  who  had  names 
in  the  country's  history.  He  was  really  an  impressive- 
looking  man,  and,  when  he  circled  sagely  about  public 
questions,  there  were  many  who  would  nudge  each 
other  and  whisper:  "See,  the  General  knows!  The 
old  warrior  cuts  like  a  sword  right  to  the  heart  of 
affairs." 

"I  can't  say  that  I  ever  liked  Carton,"  continued 
the  General.  "I've  met  the  youngster  once  or  twice, 
casually,  quite  casually.  There's  a  lack  of  good  blood 
there.  I  understand  that  his  parents  were  quite  com- 
mon people,  almost  'poor  white  trash." 

"But  what  of  that,  General?"  suddenly  said  the 
pale  little  wife.  "The  founder  of  the  Pelham  family 
fortunes,  the  man  of  great  mind  and  energy,  was  only 
an  English  peasant — he  came  over  in  1634  as  you  have 
often  told  me." 

"Madame!  Madame!"  rumbled  the  General,  "you 
show  an  utter  lack  of  discrimination.  William  George 
Pelham,  our  first  ancestor,  was  not  a  peasant  but  an 
English  yeoman.  A  yeoman,  madame,  was  of  quite 
another  type." 

A  faint  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Pelham, 
but  she  said  nothing  more,  and  the  General  resumed 


124  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

the  discussion  of  politics  at  the  capital.  The  majority 
of  the  leaders  seemed  to  him  to  be  too  young:  boys 
under  thirty  should  not  have  places  of  so  much  responsi- 
bility in  the  State;  all  the  generals  in  the  Mexican 
War  were  much  older  men— men  formed  in  the  school 
of  experience,  and  hence  that  struggle  was  an  un- 
broken chain  of  triumphs. 

Guthrie  made  no  protest  against  the  General's  sweep- 
ing assertions,  but  he  knew  that  a  great  change  was 
coming  over  the  State  nevertheless— a  change  made 
necessary  by  the  law  of  time  rather  than  by  any  sweep- 
ing revolution.  It  was  now  a  generation  since  the 
Civil  War,  and  the  atmosphere  of  that  vast  conflict 
which  so  long  enveloped  everything  was  being  driven 
away  by  the  fresher  breezes  of  a  new  century,  now  al- 
most at  hand.  Its  great  figures  were  passing,  and  men 
born  after  the  firing  on  Fort  Sumter,  men  to  whom 
those  issues  were  a  part  of  the  dead  and  historic  past, 
were  taking  the  future  of  the  State  into  their  hands, 
and  the  old  generation  resented  it. 

So  Guthrie  listened  without  feeling  to  the  General's 
diatribes,  although  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  new 
school.  He  saw  much  that  was  hollow  and  uncon- 
sciously selfish  in  the  old  school  with  its  sounding 
phrases,  its  great  show  of  manners,  and  its  narrow 
sectional  views;  but  it  was  the  school  of  this  genera- 
tion's fathers,  and  it  should  be  permitted  to  pass  with 
dignity,  and  through  ripeness  of  time,  off  the  stage  of 
affairs. 

"Come  to  see  us  often,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  General 
Pelham,  as  Guthrie  left.  "You  will  always  be  wel- 
come." 

Guthrie  had  no  doubt  either  of  the  General's  sincer- 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         125 

ity  or  of  his  liking  for  himself,  yet  he  was  well  aware  that 
General  Pelham  also  would  want  to  keep  in  touch  with 
one  who  was  likely  to  know  all  the  news  of  the  capi- 
tal. But  no  such  consideration  seemed  to  enter  into 
the  invitation  of  Mrs.  Pelham  when  she  seconded  that 
of  her  husband. 

When-Guthrie  returned  to  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  he 
saw  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow  sitting  quietly  in  a  corner, 
and  apparently  gazing  in  an  absent  way  through  a  win- 
dow at  the  wintry  landscape.  It  was  Mr.  Harlow's 
first  appearance  in  the  capital  since  the  correspondent 
had  found  him  in  the  railroad  station  on  his  way  to  the 
metropolis  of  the  State. 

Guthrie,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  approached 
Mr.  Harlow  and  greeted,  him. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mr.  Harlow 
quietly.  "Sorry  I  couldn't  talk  to  you  more  fully  last 
time  I  saw  you,  but  I  was  in  a  hurry  then,  and  trains 
won't  wait,  you  know." 

A  thin,  dry  smile  passed  over  the  smooth,  shaven 
face  of  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow. 

"It  was  a  pity  that  our  conversation  was  interrupted," 
said  Guthrie  quietly,  "but  the  misfortune  is  not  incur- 
able. We  can  resume  it  just  where  we  left  off,  Mr. 
Harlow." 

Again  Mr.  Harlow  smiled  dryly.  He  had  been  used, 
in  the  course  of  many  years,  to  the  evasion  of  questions, 
and  he  was  not  at  all  embarrassed  now. 

"If  I  remember  rightly,"  he  said,  "our  conversa- 
tion had  passed  to  the  further  edge  of  the  realm  of  fact, 
and  was  just  about  to  enter  the  domain  of  surmise. 
So,  on  the  whole,  it  was  well  that  the  train  came  when 
it  did." 


126  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"But  we  can  turn  back  into  the  realm  of  fact,"  said 
Guthrie.  "For  instance,  it  would  interest  the  public 
greatly  to  know  just  who  is  back  of  the  'United.'  I 
confess  that  I  feel  much  curiosity  on  the  subject  my- 
self." 

"Naturally.  Though  a  mere  on-looker,  I,  too,  feel 
much  interest  in  the  question." 

"  It  is  said  that  you  are  the  agent — that  is,  the  lobby- 
ist of  these  unknown  people,"  said  Guthrie  boldly. 

"People  will  say  anything,"  replied  Mr.  Harlow, 
smiling  his  thin,  dry  smile, "  and  you,  as  an  experienced 
correspondent,  Mr.  Guthrie,  knowing  how  to  sift  the 
wheat  from  the  chaff,  are  aware  that  the  amount  of 
wheat  is  extremely  small  and  the  amount  of  chaff 
ridiculously  large." 

Guthrie  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Harlow, 
but  the  calm,  smoothly  shaven  man  met  his  gaze  with- 
out evasion.  Guthrie  felt  that  he  might  be  mistaken; 
Mr.  Harlow  looked  so  candid  and  innocent,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  connect  him  with  the  affair  save  the 
fact  that  he  seemed  to  have  no  business  at  the  capital, 
but  kept  a  vigilant  watch  over  all  legislation. 

"So  you  won't  tell  me  anything  about  these  people  ?" 
said  Guthrie,  smiling. 

Mr.  Harlow  smiled  in  return. 

"I  should  like  to  give  you  an  interesting  story  for 
the  Times,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "for— pardon  me 
when  I  say  it — the  paper  has  seemed  a  little  dull  to  me 
recently;  but  I  do  not  know  any.  Will  you  accept 
the  will  instead  of  the  deed  ? " 

"  For  the  present,  because  I  have  to,"  replied  Guth- 
rie; "but,  maybe,  I  shall  come  to  you  some  other  day 
for  information,  Mr.  Harlow." 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         127 

Guthrie  made  a  mental  note  as  he  went  away,  and 
it  read,  "A  second  failure,"  the  first  being  his  fruit- 
less interview  with  Mr.  Pike.  It  annoyed  him  that  he 
could  not  grasp  the  "United"  in  any  way.  It  was 
intangible,  but  nevertheless  it  was  a  most  vital  presence. 
The  incorporators  were  well-known,  yet  they  were  not 
men  of  means  and  power,  and,  beyond  a  doubt,  they 
were  mere  dummies.  But  Guthrie  was  not  able  to 
get  behind  these  dummies. 

He  had  every  inducement  to  penetrate  the  secret  of 
the  "United:"  his  sympathy  for  his  friend,  Carton, 
pushed  him  on,  and  such  a  discovery,  too,  would  be 
important  and  legitimate  news.  He  resolved  to  find 
the  truth  in  this  matter,  even  if  it  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a 
very  deep  well.  But,  as  the  day  passed,  he  made  no 
progress.  He  confided  to  Jimmy  Warfield  his  belief 
that  Harlow  was  the  leader,  at  the  capital,  of  the  forces 
against  Carton,  and  Warfield  agreed  with  him,  but  he 
could  get  no  hold.  "When  I  grasp  at  anything," 
said  Warfield,  "it  melts  in  my  hand  like  smoke." 

Meanwhile,  the  forces,  in  Warfield's  expressive 
phrase,  were  "lining  up  for  the  great  struggle."  All 
the  ordinary  business  was  forgotten  or  hurried  over  at 
this  critical  juncture.  The  inborn  love  of  a  fight  came 
to  the  front,  and  Mr.  Pursley,  persistent,  belligerent, 
and  wholly  impervious  to  criticism,  made  the  first  move 
in  the  campaign,  filing  in  the  House,  as  the  law  pre- 
scribed, a  petition  for  the  impeachment  of  its  Speaker, 
Philip  Carton.  This  petition  was  verified  by  the  affi- 
davit of  Mr.  Pursley,  and  in  it  he  set  forth  duly  that 
the  said  Philip  Carton  had  abused  his  power  as  Speaker 
to  impede  and  defeat  a  bill,  incorporating  the  United 
Electric,  Gas,  Power,  Light,  and  Heating  Company, 


128  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

a  company  intended  to  break  the  power  of  various 
monopolies  in  the  metropolis  of  the  State,  and  mani- 
festly in  the  interest  of  the  public.  He  directly  charged 
that  the  said  Philip  Carton  was  interested  in  the  defeat 
of  this  bill;  that  is,  that  he  was  bribed  by  the  old  com- 
panies to  defeat  it  by  the  dilatory  tactics  which  a  skil- 
ful Speaker  could  adopt. 

It  was  a  scene  of  the  deepest  solemnity  in  the  House 
when  the  petition  was  presented.  All  felt  the  gravity 
of  the  occasion  and  how  it  was  likely  to  rend  the  State 
into  factions.  Carton  himself  was  in  the  chair,  nearly 
all  the  Senators  had  come  in  and  were  on  the  floor  of 
the  House  with  the  Representatives,  and  the  lobbies 
were  crowded.  Clarice  Ransome,  Mary  Pelham,  and 
her  parents,  the  Governor's  wife,  and  Mrs.  Dennison, 
all  with  eager,  intent  faces,  were  there. 

It  was  one  of  the  darkest  days  of  winter.  Since 
morning,  the  clouds  had  been  rolling  up  from  the  south- 
west, and  a  raw,  bitter  wind  whistled  around  the  old 
Capitol.  Just  as  the  House  met,  the  snow  began  to  fall 
slowly  and  sullenly. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  chamber  save  for 
an  occasional  scrape  of  a  foot,  because  all  knew  what 
was  coming.  Mr.  Pursley  had  stated  openly  when  he 
would  present  his  petition,  and  there  was  no  attempt 
to  prevent  him,  as  opposition  now  would  have  preju- 
diced the  public  against  Carton. 

Mr.  Pursley  arose,  presented  his  petition  in  due 
form,  and  it  was  read  by  the  clerk  of  the  House.  Car- 
ton never  stirred  during  the  reading;  he  was  erect  and 
dignified,  but  pale.  When  the  reading  was  finished,  he 
stood  up  and  said: 
"Gentlemen  of  the  House,  as  I,  your  Speaker,  am 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         129 

the  person  accused  in  this  petition,  it  is  obviously  unfit 
that  I  should  preside  over  your  further  proceedings 
in  regard  to  it.  Therefore,  I  name  the  gentleman  from 
Barlow  County  in  my  place,  and  I  will  retire  to  the 
floor  of  the  House." 

A  slight  hum  of  approval  arose.  It  was  confidently 
expected  by  his  enemies  and  many  of  his  friends.too, 
that  Carton  would  name  one  of  his  supporters  to  act  in 
his  place  because  the  rulings  of  the  Chair  might  be  of 
the  utmost  importance.  But  Roger  Elton,  the  mem- 
ber from  Barlow  County,  a  middle-aged,  reserved, 
self-contained  man,  was  more  nearly  independent 
than  any  other  member  of  the  House.  Broadly  speak- 
ing a  Democrat,  he  voted  now  and  then  with  the  Repub- 
licans, and  he  was  absolutely  a  man  of  his  own  opin- 
ions, who  was  now  serving  his  sixth  consecutive  term 
in  the  House.  Beyond  a  doubt,  he  would  decide  all 
questions  strictly  upon  their  merits,  and  it  was  seen 
by  this  choice  that  Carton  would  take  no  advantage. 
The  first  impression  that  he  made  was  distinctly  fa- 
vourable. 

Carton  descended  from  the  dais  upon  which  sits 
the  Speaker's  chair,  but  his  air  was  not  that  of  a  man 
who  is  going  down.  All  his  pride  and  haughtiness  were 
with  him  at  this  moment,  and  every  line  of  his  figure 
said,  "I  shall  return  to  this  seat  which  is  mine." 
Even  old  General  Pelham,  sitting  in  the  lobby  between 
his  wife  and  daughter,  was  impressed  and  said,  "By 
George,  the  fellow  carries  it  well!"  But  Mary  Pelham 
merely  gazed  straight  before  her,  and,  when  Carton 
glanced  once  toward  the  lobby,  he  did  not  meet 
her  eyes  which  looked  over  and  beyond  him.  Guthrie 
at  this  moment  wrote  in  the  despatch  that  he  was  going 


130  GTJTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

to  send,  "The  bearing  of  the  Speaker  as  he  descended 
from  the  chair  aroused  the  admiration  of  all  the  House 
and  all  the  spectators;  it  was  that  of  a  man  proud  of 
his  innocence  and  confident  of  vindication." 

Carton  walked  down  the  aisle,  and  took  the  seat  left 
vacant  by  the  member  from  Barlow  County,  from 
which  he  faced  the  new  and  temporary  Speaker,  and 
awaited  the  next  business  of  the  House. 

Mr.  Elton  briefly  stated  that  the  House  must  decide 
by  a  majority  vote  whether  an  impeachment  of  its 
Speaker,  Philip  Carton,  should  be  ordered.  If  it 
should  be  so  decided,  he  would  then  appoint  a  com- 
mittee to  prosecute  the  same,  and  the  chairman  of  that 
committee  five  days  thereafter  would  lay  the  case  before 
the  Senate,  which  would  try  the  case.  Did  the  House 
wish  to  vote  now  on  the  question  of  impeachment? 

Jimmy  Warfield  sprang  up,  and  was  recognised  by 
the  Chair. 

"Mr.  Speaker,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  most  extraordi- 
nary and  sensational  action,  unparalleled  in  the  history 
of  the  State.  It  is  a  case  that  demands  the  utmost 
attention  and  thought  of  the  Legislature.  I  am  sure 
that  neither  those  who  are  for  Mr.  Carton  nor  those 
who  are  against  him  wish  hasty  action.  I  move,  there- 
fore, that  the  vote  on  the  question  of  impeachment  be 
set  for  2  P.  M.  next  Monday." 

There  was  no  opposition  by  either  side  to  the  motion 
which  was  seconded  and  promptly  carried,  and  the 
House  adjourned  for  the  noon  recess.  Then  arose  a 
great  buzz  of  talk,  and  the  spectators  from  the  lobbies 
poured  in  upon  the  floor.  Many  friends  of  Carton 
wished  to  show  their  sympathy,-  and  among  them  were 
members  ready  to  defy  the  public  which  hated  corpo- 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         131 

rations  and  trusts,  and  which  was  now  identifying 
Carton  with  them.  Clarice  Ransome  impulsively  gave 
him  both  her  hands  and  exclaimed, 

"Oh,  Mr.  Carton,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
admire  your  course!" 

Guthrie,  standing  quietly  in  the  background,  was 
grateful  to  Clarice  for  this  warm-hearted  act,  but  Car- 
ton glanced  again  toward  the  lobby.  Mary  Pelham 
had  not  come  upon  the  floor  of  the  House,  and  her 
father,  now  with  her  arm  in  his  as  if  he  were  afraid 
she  would  escape,  was  taking  her  from  the  building, 
while  Mrs.  Pelham  meekly  followed.  Carton  was  pale 
already,  but  he  turned  a  little  paler,  and  Guthrie  knew 
how  this  act  like  a  desertion  struck  him  to  the  heart; 
a  word  of  sympathy  then  from  Mary  Pelham  would 
have  gone  far. 

By  some  unconscious  process,  an  informal  division  of 
the  House  seemed  to  take  place  then.  Those  who 
favoured  Carton  flocked  around  him,  and  those  who 
were  against  him  crowded  out  at  the  far  aisle.  Guth- 
rie, always  observant,  noticed  how  much  larger  the 
hostile  crowd  was  than  the  other,  but  he  was  not  sur- 
prised. He  had  never  doubted  that  the  impeachment 
would  be  laid  by  the  House,  and  the  great  fight  would 
come  before  the  Senate  as  a  trial  court. 

He  waited  until  most  of  the  crowd  were  gone,  then 
walked  slowly  out,  but  in  the  lobby  he  found  the  young 
Governor  and  his  wife  waiting. 

"You  must  come  to  luncheon  with  us,  Mr.  Guthrie," 
said  Lucy  Hastings.  "  Clarice  and  Mary  will  be  there, 
of  course,  and  the  General  and  Mrs.  Pelham,  and — 
and " 

"And  we  invited  Carton,  too,"  said  the  Governor, 


132  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

taking  up  the  continuance  for  her,  "but  he  would  not 
come." 

Guthrie  appreciated  the  Governor's  generosity  in 
supporting  his  friend,  but,  at  this  moment,  Carton's 
declination  was  wise;  it  would  have  seemed  like  a  de- 
fiance of  public  opinion. 

He  walked  through  the  Capitol  grounds  with  the 
Governor  and  his  wife,  the  other  guests  having  gone  on 
ahead.  The  day  was  still  dark  and  lowering,  and  the 
flakes  of  snow  were  driven  in  their  faces  by  the  bitter 
wind. 

"What  an  unpleasant  day!"  said  the  Governor, 
shivering.  "I  hope  it  is  not  an  omen  for  Carton." 

"It's  just  the  other  way,"  said  Guthrie,  cheerfully, 
as  he  looked  up  at  the  leaden  sky.  "  Bad  beginning, 
good  ending." 

Guthrie,  partly  through  instinct  and  partly  through 
the  stimulus  of  occupation,  had  trained  his  faculties 
of  observation  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  he  noticed  at 
once  that  the  Governor  chose  the  longest  way  to  his 
house;  he  inferred  from  this  that  Mr.  Hastings  wished 
to  ask  him  questions,  and  in  half  a  minute  he  was  proved 
to  be  right. 

"Billy,"  said  the  Governor,  going  at  once  to  the 
point,  "have  you  found  out  what  the  Republicans  are 
going  to  do  in  this  affair  of  Carton's?" 

"No,  I  have  not,"  replied  Guthrie,  "but  I  would 
give  much  to  know.  I  tried  to  interview  Mr.  Pike  who, 
is  as  nearly  their  leader  as  they  come  to  having  any, 
but  he  would  not  answer  a  question.  He  dealt 
wholly  in  parables  and  allegories." 

"Just  like  one  of  those  mountaineers,"  said  the 
Governor.  "It  would  be  wrong  if  the  Republicans 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         133 

tried  to  'play  polities'  in  this,  but  the  temptation  must 
be  strong." 

"No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Guthrie,  "and,  if  they  see 
a  chance  to  split  our  party  and  throw  the  State  into  their 
own  hands,  it  is  human  nature  to  do  it." 

But  Lucy  Hastings  would  not  tolerate  any  such  idea; 
she  took  only  the  single-minded  view  that  every  man 
should  vote  according  to  his  belief  in  the  innocence  or 
guilt  of  Carton — how  it  could  be  anything  but  inno- 
cence, she  failed  to  see. 

Guthrie  and  the  Governor  did  not  reply,  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  were  at  the  executive  mansion.  It  was 
a  quiet  luncheon  save  for  the  voice  of  General  Pelham. 
All  the  others  were  oppressed  by  the  case  against 
Carton,  presented  in  due  form  at  last,  and  General 
Pelham  may  have  been  troubled  by  it  too;  but  he  as- 
sumed, even  to  a  greater  extent  than  usual,  the  air  of 
an  elderly  man  of  the  world  who  could  recount  much 
strenuous  experience.  His  reminiscences  of  old  battle- 
fields and  of  men  who  were  men  flowed  in  a  turgid 
stream,  and  the  others  offered  few  interruptions  because 
they  felt  little  like  conversation.  Now  and  then,  Mary 
Pelham,  coming  out  of  her  cold  reserve,  pretended 
gayety,  but  it  was  strained  and  unnatural. 

Obviously,  there  was  a  cloud  over  the  luncheon,  and 
Guthrie  was  not  sorry  when  he  left  the  house,  because 
he,  too,  felt  some  constraint — and,  when  there  was  con- 
straint, he  preferred  to  be  with  others  rather  than  with 
his  friends. 

He  went  from  the  Governor's  house  to  the  telegraph 
office,  wishing  to  file  a  portion  of  his  despatch  for  early 
sending,  and  he  wrote  it  at  a  desk  in  the  corner  of  the 
room.  The  only  operator  present  was  the  second  as- 


134  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

sistant,  a  garrulous  boy  of  eighteen,  who  remarked 
when  Guthrie  finished  his  work: 

"Mighty  busy  day  for  us,  Mr.  Guthrie!  I  tell  you 
a  thing  like  the  impeachment  of  Mr.  Carton  gives  us 
lots  of  work  to  do.  The  wires  will  be  burnin'  all  day 
and  to-night,  too.  The  boss  and  Tom  didn't  get  away 
to  dinner  until  five  minutes  ago.  We've  been  sendin' 
columns  an'  columns  to  the  evenin'  papers,  and  lots 
of  private  despatches,  too." 

"Ah!"  said  Guthrie  absently. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  boy,  "I've  been  on  most  of 
the  private  ones  myself.  Sent  a  long  one  for  Mr. 
Harlow  all  the  way  to  New  York  City  just  a  few  min- 
utes before  you  came  in." 

All  Guthrie's  abstraction  was  gone,  and,  in  an  instant, 
he  was  keenly  alive.  A  long  despatch  by  Caius  Mar- 
cellus  Harlow  to  New  York  City,  and  that,  too,  right 
on  the  heels  of  the  petition  against  Carton!  He 
looked  again  at  the  boy,  who  was  none  too  clear- 
witted  and  obviously  anxious  to  talk  about  the  big 
day's  work. 

A  great  temptation  assailed  Guthrie  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  the  telegram 
of  Mr.  Harlow's  was  sent  to  the  people  who  were  mak- 
ing the  fight  on  Carton,  and  there  was  the  boy  before 
him — foolish,  plastic,  ready  to  be  moulded  in  his  hands 
as  he  wished.  Guthrie  had  no  doubt  that,  by  adroit 
questionings,  he  could  draw  from  him  every  fact  of  the 
despatch,  and  the  boy  himself  remain  ignorant  that  he 
had  told. 

It  was  like  a  wireless  telegram  out  of  the  dark,  telling 
where  the  key  to  the  mystery  lay,  and  Guthrie  glanced 
around  the  room  and  then  out  of  the  door  and  into  the 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  CARTON         135 

street;  no  one  was  coming,  they  would  be  alone  there 
for  a  while  longer. 

He  thought  of  all  that  depended  on  the  solution 
of  this  problem — the  future  of  Carton,  his  personal 
happiness,  the  salvation  of  the  State  from  a  great  dis- 
grace, and  the  prevention  of  a  terrible  split  in  the  party. 
He  must  play  the  spy,  the  thief — if  one  need  call  it  so 
— and  stop  these  things!  After  all,  the  cause  of  jus- 
tice would  be  served. 

Guthrie  opened  his  lips  to  ask  the  boy  a  question, 
but  he  stopped  and  shivered.  He  felt  even  a  physical 
revolt  at  this  thing,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  done 
before.  The  words  halted  at  his  lips,  and,  hastily  put- 
ting on  his  overcoat,  he  almost  ran  out  of  the  room. 

He  inhaled  a  deep  gulp  of  the  cold,  fresh  air,  and  felt 
better.  The  day  was  still  dark  and  lowering,  but  a 
hope  came  to  him.  Harlow  was  in  communication 
with  people  in  New  York  City,  and  they  were  the  men 
who  were  making  the  fight  on  Carton.  That  had  been 
told  to  him  without  his  seeking;  and  he  had  a  clue. 
Something  had  been  gained,  and  the  "something" 
was  not  so  little. 

He  walked  toward  the  hotel,  and  saw  Jimmy  War- 
field,  wrapped  in  a  great  overcoat,  standing  on  the 
steps. 

"There's  a  sensation,"  said  Warfield.  "Senator 
Pike  got  a  telegram  half  an  hour  ago.  It  came  from 
Sayville;  that's  the  nearest  place  on  the  railroad  to  his 
home — it's  fifty  miles  from  there  across  the  moun- 
tains. The  Pikes  and  the  Dilgers  have  broken  out 
again — it  seems  they've  had  an  old  feud  which  has 
been  resting  for  the  last  two  years.  Pike's  younger 
brother,  Nathan,  has  been  murdered  from  ambush. 


136  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  'TIMES 

and  the  Pikes  have  telegraphed  for  the  Senator  to  come. 
He's  the  head  of  the  family,  and  he'll  have  to  go." 

Guthrie  was  startled.  This  was  like  a  projection 
from  an  old  and  bloody  past.  He  was  familiar  with 
the  story  of  mountain  feuds,  but  rarely  did  they  involve 
a  State  senator. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Pike?"  he  asked. 

"In  his  room,  packing  up.  He  never  hesitated  a 
minute;  it  seems  that  he  had  been  expecting  an  out- 
break. But  I  don't  think  he'll  talk." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Guthrie.  "I'm  going  to  the 
mountains  with  him." 

He  had  taken  his  resolution  in  an  instant.  Such  an 
event  as  this,  coming  at  so  critical  a  juncture  and  in- 
volving the  leader  of  the  Republican  minority  in  the 
Legislature,  was  an  event  of  great  importance,  hardly 
inferior  in  interest  to  the  fight  on  Carton.  Moreover, 
the  main  contest  over  Carton  could  not  come  up  for 
at  least  ten  days  yet,  and  by  that  time  he  would  be  back 
in  the  capital. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "I'm  going  with  Mr.  Pike. 
You  can't  tell  what  will  happen  in  those  mountains." 

"All  right,  Billy;  but  whatever  you  do,"  said  War- 
field,  earnestly,  "don't  meddle  with  the  feud;  you 
know  that  so  long  as  you  are  an  outsider  you  are  as 
safe  in  the  mountains  as  you  are  anywhere  in  the  world." 

"  I'll  bear  it  in  mind,"  Guthrie  replied  over  his  shoul- 
der, as  he  was  already  hastening  back  to  the  telegraph 
office. 


CHAPTER  DC 
INTO  THE  WILDERNESS 


to  *• 

in  time  o  *  *""'  "  and 

east-bound  train  wnfch^Ln         *?«** 
"»  due  in  ,he  Capitol  in  thrlT  *"" 
reived  instruction  UtS'  "nd  unl^  he 


,      e  pushed 
Mr.  Pike  was      , 


J 
°°r'  and 

^  fl°°r' 


had  a  metallic  blue  look 
-ngle  glimpse  that   it  was 
38^alibre  revolver. 

Mr.  Pike  looked  up. 

"Ah!  it  i 


aPProached 

^  *e 
seven-shot, 


said 


137 


138  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

bones  were  high  and  prominent,  and  the  skin  lay  upon 
them  like  parchment. 

Mr.  Pike's  whole  character  seemed  to  have  changed 
with  his  appearance.  There  was  something  ferocious, 
something  savage  in  the  look  of  his  black  eyes  and  the 
angles  of  his  lean  face.  It  was  the  gaze  of  a  North 
American  Indian,  or  rather  of  a  man  from  whom  a 
hard-won  civilisation  had  suddenly  slipped. 

Guthrie  hesitated.  He  scarcely  knew  how  to  ap- 
proach this  new  man,  this  stranger. 

"Mr.  Pike,"  he  said,  "I  have  heard  of  your  mis- 
fortune." 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mr.  Pike  quietly,  "Nathan  was 
my  brother,  and  it  was  right  that  they  should  send  for 
me.  I  know  my  duty  here — I  am  a  senator  of  this 
State,  and  there  is  a  great  trial  coming — but  out  there 
in  the  mountains,  where  my  home  is,  blood  is  calling 
— the  blood  of  my  murdered  brother.  Mr.  Guthrie, 
with  us  of  the  mountains  the  family  always  comes  be- 
fore the  State." 

Guthrie  knew  this,  he  knew  the  strength  of  kinship 
in  the  mountains,  and  he  knew  Mr.  Pike  must  be 
suffering. 

"I  am  going  with  you,"  he  said. 

"That  can't  be,"  said  the  Senator.  "This  concerns 
only  the  Pikes  and  the  Dilgers." 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Guthrie  firmly.  "At  any 
rate,  I  am  going.  The  same  train  that  takes  you  to 
Sayville  will  take  me  too." 

Mr.  Pike  fastened  the  catch  of  his  valise  before  he 
replied,  and,  when  he  looked  up  again,  his  face  was  stern 
and  fixed. 

"You  had  better  stay  here,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said, 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  139 

"and  I  tell  you  because  I  like  you.  But,  if  you  insist 
on  going,  I  can't  prevent  it." 

"That's  quite  true,"  replied  Guthrie  with  a  slight 
laugh.  "You,  for  one  reason,  think  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  go,  and  I,  for  another  reason,  think  that  it  is 
mine  to  go,  too." 

"Very  well,"  replied  the  Senator,  "yet  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  do  it.  And,  when  you  get  in  the  mountains, 
you'd  better  keep  away  from  me.  It's  all  between  the 
Pikes  and  the  Dilgers,  and  there's  no  need  of  anybody 
else's  being  drawn  into  it." 

He  spoke  quite  simply.  At  no  time  had  he  raised 
his  voice  above  its  customary  pitch,  but  Guthrie  soon 
saw  that  his  attention  was  wandering;  he  was  thinking 
now  of  the  wintry  hills,  the  dwarfed  undergrowth,  hid- 
den marksmen,  and  his  dead  brother.  Guthrie  was 
much  moved. 

"Mr.  Pike,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "I  wish  to  offer 
you  my  deepest  sympathy." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Pike  clasped  it  in  a 
firm  grasp.  Nothing  more  was  said,  and  Guthrie  left 
the  house  at  once.  He,  too,  had  packing  to  do,  and  he 
intended  to  make  a  call  after  that.  In  the  street,  a  mes- 
senger boy  handed  him  a  telegram  containing  the 
single  word,  "  Go."  Guthrie  had  known  that  it  would 
be  so,  and,  thrusting  the  message  in  his  pocket,  con- 
tinued on  his  way  to  his  own  room  where  he  finished 
his  task  in  half  an  hour. 

He  understood  that  it  was  no  light  journey  on  which 
he  was  going.  The  mountains  are  sufficiently  arduous  in 
summer,  but  are  trebly  so  in  winter,  and  Guthrie  pro- 
vided himself  with  top-boots  and  a  flask  of  strong  whis- 
key, something  that  he  never  drank  at  the  capital. 


140  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Equipped  now  for  a  campaign,  he  went  to  the  Gov- 
ernor's house  and  sent  his  card  to  Clarice  Ransome. 
Then  he  waited  in  the  parlour  before  the  blazing  wood 
fire,  and  began  to  feel  the  thrill  of  coming  action.  On 
the  whole,  he  was  not  sorry  that  he  was  starting  on  this 
journey.  Here  was  something  tangible.  He  knew 
just  how  to  proceed.  The  field  of  the  campaign  lay 
clear  before  him.  He  was  not  groping  in  the  dark,  as 
in  the  Carton  case. 

He  heard  a  step,  and  he  rose  as  Clarice  Ransome 
entered.  There  was  a  faint  flush  on  her  face  as  of 
surprise  that  he  should  come  back  so  soon,  but  no  trace 
of  displeasure. 

Guthrie  hesitated,  and  was  embarrassed.  He  had 
come  on  an  impulse  to  tell  her  that  he  was  going  into 
the  mountains,  but  really  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  tell  her  this;  it  occurred  to  him  now  that  it  was 
of  no  interest  or  importance  to  her.  He  flushed,  and 
she,  seeing  his  embarrassment,  shared  it — but  for  a 
moment  only — then,  recovering  herself,  she  was  cool  and 
seemingly  indifferent. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  good-bye,"  said  Guthrie,  some- 
what lamely. 

"Good-bye?    You  are  going  to  leave  the  capital?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  into  the  mountains,"  said  Guthrie, 
"but  I  expect  to  be  back  in  eight  or  ten  days.  Still  it's 
quite  a  journey — particularly  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
and  I've  got  a  mission  that  must  seem  to  you  remark- 
able. Suppose,  we  sit  down  here  before  the  fire,  and 
I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

She  complied  with  his  request,  and  she  felt  a 
little  pleasurable  thrill  that  he  had  come  to  tell 
her  of  his  departure.  Had  she  been  analysing 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  141 

herself,  she  would  have  said  that  it  made  a  slight 
appeal  to  her  vanity. 

Guthrie  told  her  of  the  despatch  to  Mr.  Pike,  the 
state  of  affairs  between  the  Pikes  and  the  Dilgers,  and 
his  interview  with  the  Senator.  He  offered  no  apology 
for  the  mountaineers,  leaving  her  to  infer  what  she  chose. 
But  she  made  no  comment  upon  them;  instead,  she 
spoke  of  him. 

'And  are  you  really  going  into  those  wild  moun- 
tains?" she  asked,  "and  in  the  depth  of  winter  I  Why 
it  is  like  a  campaign!  See  it  is  snowing  now!" 

Guthrie  glanced  at  the  window.  The  flakes  had 
increased  in  size  and  number,  and  were  driving  against 
the  glass.  He  looked  at  the  blazing  logs,  and  the  fine 
face  of  Clarice  Ransome,  rosy  in  the  twilight;  the 
mountains  were  not  so  inviting  after  all. 

"In  some  respects,  I  envy  you,"  she  said.  "The 
lives  of  women  are  monotonous;  those  of  men 
are  not,  or  need  not  be  so.  You  are  going 
upon  what  is  an  adventure,  full  of  excitement  and 
the  unexpected." 

"I  did  not  know  that  a  woman  would  take  that  view 
of  it,"  said  Guthrie. 

"Perhaps  I  should  not  have  done  so  a  month  ago," 
she  replied,  thoughtfully,  "but  I  can  do  so  now.  I 
suppose  action  is  the  best  thing  in  life." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Guthrie  with  confi- 
dence. 

She  was  silent,  gazing  meditatively  into  the  fire. 
She  was  thinking  then  of  Raoul  from  whom  she  had 
received  a  letter  that  morning,  a  letter  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  phrases.  Her  heart  had  warmed  to  him  as 
she  read  it.  Raoul  could  be  so  expressive!  But  the 


142  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

picture  of  him  with  his  beautiful  neckties,  his  unim- 
peachable coats,  his  delicate  features,  and  the  faint, 
almost  imperceptible  odour  of  perfume  about  him  rose 
up  before  her.  She  could  not  conceive  of  Raoul  plung- 
ing into  a  wilderness  of  mountains  among  men  half  or 
wholly  wild,  who  were  engaging  with  zest  in  the  busi- 
ness of  shooting  at  each  other:  his  aptitudes  lay  in 
other  directions. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Guthrie,  "I  have  been  taking  up 
your  time,  but  I  wished  to  say  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  she  put  a  cool  hand  in 
his.  "But  remember  that  I  demand  the  tale  of  your 
adventures  when  you  come  back." 

"You  shall  have  it,"  said  Guthrie  as  he  went  out. 

The  winter  twilight  fell  early,  and  with  it  came  the 
east-bound  train  which  found  Guthrie,  wrapped  in  a 
big  black  overcoat,  a  small  valise  in  his  hand,  waiting 
at  the  station.  Mr.  Pike,  also  valise  in  hand,  was 
waiting  there,  too,  sombre  and  quiet.  Guthrie  nodded 
to  him,  but  did  not  speak,  judging  that  the  Senator 
wished  to  be  alone  with  his  sorrow  and  his  plans  for 
the  future. 

It  was  to  be  a  hard  night's  journey.  Express  trains 
as  good  as  any  in  the  world  passed  through  the  capital 
on  their  way  to  New  York,  but  they  did  not  stop  at 
Sayville,  and  Guthrie  and  the  Senator  were  forced  to 
take  what  is  known  as  a  "local,"  one  that  stopped  at 
every  station  and  made  slow  time.  It  would  put  them 
into  Sayville  early  the  next  morning,  but  it  had  no 
sleeping-coaches,  and  Guthrie,  with  the  skill  of  an  old 
campaigner,  made  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible 
in  one  of  the  red  plush  seats  with  his  valise  for  a  pillow 
and  his  overcoat  for  a  blanket.  Mr  Pike  sat  at  the 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  143 

other  end  of  the  coach  staring  solemnly  out  at  the  hills 
that  slid  by. 

They  had  less  than  a  dozen  persons  for  company, 
and  none  of  them  made  any  impression  on  Guthrie. 
He  wished  to  go  to  sleep  at  once,  but  his  eyes  refused 
to  close.  He,  too,  began  to  stare  out  of  the  window 
like  Mr.  Pike,  although  he  saw  the  hills  that  fled  past, 
while  Mr.  Pike  did  not.  The  snow  cased  falling,  the 
moon  came  out,  silvery  and  clear,  and  it  was  a  com- 
fortable landscape,  despite  the  wintry  night,  intersected 
with  stone  fences,  dotted  here  and  there  with  big,  red 
brick  houses,  and  bearing  all  the  signs  of  opulence  and 
an  old  civilisation.  It  was  hard  to  realise  that  another 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  would  take  him  into  a  region 
so  wild  that  the  old  clan  feuds  of  the  Celt  yet  endured, 
and  the  law  of  the  rifle  was  still  the  chief  law  of  the 
land.  But  Guthrie  knew  well  that  he  would  wake  up 
the  next  morning  in  a  world  wholly  different  from  his, 
and,  although  he  had  seen  it  often,  the  contrast  always 
struck  him  with  great  force. 

Passengers  got  off  at  the  little  stations,  and  new 
ones  got  on,  but  the  number  aboard  the  train  did 
not  change  materially,  nor  did  their  character  or 
lack  of  it.  There  was  not  one  among  them  whose 
features  Guthrie  could  remember  ten  minutes  later; 
all  paled  before  the  swart,  set  face  of  Mr.  Pike  still 
staring  steadily  out  of  the  window  at  the  hills  flying 
past  and  never  seeing  them. 

Guthrie  was  glad  to  notice  that  the  snow  had  stopped ; 
fifty  miles  east  of  the  capital,  none  at  all  seemed  to  have 
fallen,  and  the  red  brick  houses  looked  snug  and  warm 
in  the  moonlight.  At  last  he  began  to  feel  sleepy;  the 
dim  train-lights  flickered  overhead,  the  figures  of  the 


144  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

passengers  wavered,  and  only  the  stern  face  of  Mr. 
Pike  at  the  window  remained  fixed  and  vivid.  Then 
he  fell  asleep,  and  was  unconscious  of  everything  till  the 
conductor  awoke  him  on  a  raw,  cold  morning,  with  a 
misty  dawn  creeping  in  at  the  car  windows. 

"Sayville!"  cried  the  conductor.  "All  off  for  Say- 
ville!" 

Guthrie  shivered,  drew  on  his  gloves,  and  pulled  the 
high  collar  of  his  overcoat  about  his  ears.  Mr.  Pike, 
valise  in  hand  and  watchful,  was  already  at  the  door. 
Guthrie  was  sure  that  the  Senator  had  not  closed  his 
eyes  throughout  the  night,  and,  taking  his  own  valise, 
he  followed. 

He  stepped  out  on  the  little  platform,  and  the  train 
with  a  shriek  and  a  whiz  left  him,  sending  back  a  fare- 
well and  derisive  column  of  smoke.  Guthrie  looked 
about  him.  The  expected  change  from  the  night  before 
had  come  in  all  its  completeness,  and  the  contrast,  as 
always,  struck  sharply  upon  his  mind. 

He  was  deep  in  the  mountains,  and  they  lay  in  a  coil 
about  him,  ridge  on  ridge,  until  they  died  away  in  a 
faint  blur  on  the  horizon.  The  dwarfed  forests  that 
clothed  them  from  base  to  summit  were  swept  bare  of 
leaves  by  the  winter  winds,  and  the  naked  branches 
hung  mournfully.  Sayville,  a  mean  little  village  of 
squalid  houses,  sprawled  in  a  cleft  between  the  hills, 
and  Guthrie,  looking  at  it,  wondered  why  anybody 
should  ever  want  to  live  there.  The  sun  was  not  yet 
risen,  and  the  gray  dawn,  its  vanguard,  was  still  misty. 
The  village  was  asleep,  but,  even  in  its  rest,  it  conveyed 
to  Guthrie  no  idea  of  comfort,  like  the  snug  towns  of 
the  lowlands  that  he  had  left  behind. 

Mr.  Pike  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.     A  long,  thin 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  145 

mountaineer  of  uncertain  age,  leading  a  spare  horse, 
had  met  the  Senator  at  the  station. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  "I  take  horse  now 
for  Briarton,  and  I  ride  fast.  It  wouldn't  do  at  all  for 
you  to  go  with  me  from  here,  and  I  tell  you  that,  if  you 
go  to  that  two-story  house  over  there,  you  can  get 
breakfast  and  a  fire." 

Guthrie  nodded  cheerfully. 

"I  understand,  Mr.  Pike,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want 
to  go  with  you  now,  but  I'll  follow.  I'll  be  in  Briarton 
not  many  hours  behind  you.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Pike;  I 
hope  no  harm  will  come  to  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  it  was  enclosed  in  a  warm 
and  hearty  clasp.  Then  the  Senator  sprang  into  the 
saddle,  and,  with  the  messenger  by  his  side,  rode  away 
on  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  Guthrie  watched  them 
until  they  were  lost  in  the  bleak  forest,  and  then  he  went 
to  the  house  that  Mr.  Pike  had  pointed  out  to  him. 

He  ate  a  poor  breakfast  in  a  cold  room,  and  felt  that 
he  was  beginning  the  day  badly.  The  inside  of  the 
house  was  more  cheerless  than  the  outside;  everything 
was  slatternly,  and  the  people  were  lank  and  pasty- 
faced.  It  gave  Guthrie  a  sense  of  keen  discomfort, 
and  he  began  to  appreciate  all  the  risks  and  troubles  of 
his  venture. 

He  was  more  than  an  hour  in  securing  a  horse  and  a 
guide,  the  horse  to  be  used  all  the  way,  while  the  guide 
was  to  stop  at  Lone  Oak,  another  tiny  village  on  the 
way,  thirty  miles  deeper  into  the  mountains;  he  would 
have  to  go  the  remaining  twenty  miles  alone,  and  take 
his  chances.  He  tied  his  little  valise  on  the  saddle 
behind  him,  and,  with  the  twenty-year  old  boy,  his 
guide,  he  set  forth.  The  boy,  as  he  soon  disclosed  of 


146  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

his  own  accord,  bore  the  name  of  Ezra  Perkins,  and  he 
was  very  curious  about  the  world  in  which  his  own 
orbit  was  so  limited. 

"What  be  you  goin'  to  Briarton  fur?"  he  asked  with 
the  frank  curiosity  ot  the  mountains. 
"Business,"  replied  Guthrie  vaguely. 
"What's  your  line?  Groceries?  No!  Wa'll,  I  rec- 
kon then  it's  shoes,  but  I  'low  it's  a  pow'ful  bad  time  to 
be  goin'  to  Briarton.  They're  all  took  up  there  with 
the  feud  that's  broke  out  fresh  between  the  Pikes  and 
the  Dilgers.  That  was  Senator  Pike  hisself  that  got 
off  the  train  when  you  did — the  tall  man  with  the  black 
hair — smartest  man  in  the  mountings  they  say — he's 
mighty  nigh  the  head  of  the  hull  kit  an'  b'ilin'  of  the 
Pikes,  but  the  Dilgers  hev  laid  his  brother  out  cold  for 
shore!" 

The  road  began  to  ascend  the  slope  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  led  away  over  the  ridges. 

The  earth  here  was  free  from  snow,  and  the  cold 
crisp  air  sparkled  with  freshness.  Guthrie's  spirits 
returned.  This  was  a  lonely  world,  but  it  was  worth 
while  to  see  it  at  times,  in  the  brown  grandeur  of  win- 
ter, ridge  on  ridge,  and  peak  on  peak.  The  sun  shot 
up,  and  poured  down  a  flood  of  gold  on  the  wilderness, 
in  which  Guthrie  with  a  sweep  of  miles  now  saw  not  a 
single  house,  not  a  singe  cabin-smoke.  But  he  en- 
joyed the  absence  of  human  beings  after  the  fret  and 
struggle  of  the  capital,  and,  lifting  up  his  voice,  he  sang, 
then  listened  to  the  echo  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills. 

"I  took  over  to  Lone  Oak  oncet  a  drummer  who 
sing  like  that,"  said  Ezra.  "I  thought  somethin'  was 
wrong  with  him,  and  shore  nuff  there  was.  He's  in  the 
'sylum  now — disapp'inted  in  love." 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  147 

Guthrie  laughed.  He  knew  how  to  take  this,  which 
was  not  meant  as  a  satire,  but  merely  as  a  plain  state- 
ment of  facts,  irrespective  of  consequences  or  de- 
ductions. 

"I'm  not  like  the  drummer,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  dis- 
appointed in  love." 

"You're  lucky,"  said  Ezra.  "I  am,  an'  it's  a  thing 
you  don't  want  to  happen  to  you  more'n  oncet  in  a 
lifetime.  It  was  Sukey  Parker,  t'other  side  of  the 
mounting.  We  got  religion  at  the  same  meetin'  an' 
kep'  comp'ny  a  hull  year.  I  thought  it  was  all  right, 
but  she  sacked  me  an'  took  Bill  Hubbard.  I  felt 
pow'ful  bad  over  it  fur  a  while.  You  see,  I'm  a-gittin' 
old,  an'  it's  time  I  wuz  married  an'  settled  down." 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  Guthrie. 

"Twenty-one,  come  next  June,"  replied  Ezra  sadly, 
"  an'  I  don't  want  to  be  no  old  bachelor,  with  all  of  'em 
hevin'  the  laugh  on  me!" 

Guthrie  made  no  comment,  knowing  that,  by  moun- 
tain standards  of  development,  Ezra  should  have  been 
comfortably  married  a  couple  of  years  ago.  Instead, 
he  let  the  boy  chatter  on,  but  now  he  paid  little  atten- 
tion, his  mind  becoming  absorbed  with  the  mountains 
about  him  over  which  he  rode.  Although  it  was  a 
colder  and  higher  region,  there  was  no  sign  of  snow 
here.  The  sunlight  streamed  over  everything,  gilding 
the  bare  rock  and  the  brown  bushes  and  filling  the  lungs 
with  tonic. 

Guthrie,  looking  upon  the  sea  of  crests  and  ridges, 
could  understand  how  the  main  currents  of  civilisation 
had  passed  them  by,  one  turning  to  the  North  and  the 
other  to  the  South,  reuniting  in  a  grand  westward  sweep 
after  they  had  flanked  the  mountain  chain. 


148  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Silence  and  desolation  reigned  everywhere.  There 
was  no  sound  save  the  faint  murmur  of  the  wind  about 
the  slopes  and  through  the  bare  branches.  They  did 
not  meet  a  human  being,  and  they  were  two  hours  out 
of  Sayville  when  Guthrie  saw  the  smoke  of  the  first 
cabin.  Is  was  a  thin  stream  rising  from  a  glen  half  a 
mile  to  the  right,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  a  blur  on 
the  landscape.  Ezra  volunteered  information  as  to 
who  lived  there,  but  the  name  made  no  impression  on 
Guthrie.  They  were  now  in  a  narrow  road  leading 
along  the  side  of  a  ridge,  and  Ezra  rode  before,  the  way 
not  being  wide  enough  for  two. 

They  came  presently  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  and 
Guthrie  saw  far  ahead  a  narrow  valley. 

"That,"  said  Ezra,  pointing  with  a  long  forefinger, 
"is  Lone  Oak,  but  it's  a  good  fifteen  miles  from  here. 
I  reckon,  stranger,  that  you'll  have  to  stay  all  night 
there." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Guthrie.  "I  suppose  I  can 
get  another  guide  in  that  town,  and,  if  I  don't,  I  can 
push  on  alone." 

Ezra  looked  questioningly  at  Guthrie. 

"  Tears  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  you're  pow'ful  anxious 
to  git  to  Briarton;  never  knowed  a  drummer  to  be  in 
sich  a  hurry  afore.  An'  that  ain't  sich  a  mighty  big 
grip  to  tote  samples  in  neither!" 

He  looked  at  the  little  valise  that  his  employer  car- 
ried on  his  saddle,  and  Guthrie  knew  that  he  was  eaten 
up  with  curiosity  concerning  its  contents,  but  he  would 
not  gratify  it.  He  was  willing  to  let  Ezra,  if  he  chose, 
suppose  that  it  was  filled  with  improved  revolvers,  for 
sale  either  to  the  Pikes  or  the  Dilgers,  whichever  faction 
made  the  better  bid, 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  149 

The  promise  was  still  all  of  fair  weather,  and  the 
horses,  trained  to  the  steep  and  narrow  roads  of  the 
mountains,  made  good  speed  toward  Lone  Oak.  Guth- 
rie  rejoiced  in  the  glorious  peace  and  sunshine,  but  he 
could  not  forget  that  to  which  he  was  riding.  He  had 
an  inborn  love  of  order,  and  he  respected  the  law;  he 
did  not  believe  that  there  could  be  any  complete  civilisa- 
tion without  it;  lynching  shocked  him  as  something 
debasing  to  those  who  took  part  in  it,  and  the  inevitable 
road  to  things  yet  worse;  and  much  as  he  loved  his 
State,  he  always  felt  a  sense  of  shame  when  any  fresh 
outbreaks  in  these  mountains  occurred;  they  were  as 
much  a  part  of  the  State  as  were  the  lowlands,  and 
responsibility  for  them  could  not  be  escaped :  here  was 
a  new  cause  for  disgrace  in  this  sudden  outcropping  of 
the  war  between  the  Pikes  and  the  Dilgers. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  they  reached  the 
narrow  valley  in  which  stood  the  village  of  Lone  Oak, 
a  cluster  of  about  fifteen  houses,  wrapped  in  mountain 
isolation.  Ezra  expressed  his  joy  vocally.  He  did  not 
care  to  go  any  farther  into  the  mountains;  the  Pikes 
were  nothing  to  him,  nor  were  the  Dilgers,  but  Briarton 
would  belong  for  the  time  to  the  one  family  or  the  other, 
whichever  was  strong  enough  to  hold  it,  and  even  a  man 
attending  strictly  to  his  own  business  might  get  in  the 
way  of  a  stray  bullet. 

His  words  made  no  impression  on  Guthrie,  who  was 
reckoning  the  time  of  day,  and  how  long  it  would  take 
him  to  reach  Briarton  after  a  brief  stop  in  Ix>ne  Oak, 
as  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  arriving  without  delay  at 
the  seat  of  the  trouble. 

Lone  Oak  proved  to  be  a  lean  and  unpicturesque 
village,  but  Guthrie  found  in  it  enough  overcooked  food 


150  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

for  a  dinner,  and  was  able  to  hire  a  horse  for  the  second 
stage  of  the  journey,  though  he  could  secure  no  guide. 
Senator  Pike  and  his  companion  had  passed  on  three 
hours  before,  riding  hard,  and  there  was  sure  to  be 
trouble  when  they  reached  Briarton.  Ezra  strongly 
advised  Guthrie  to  stay  in  Lone  Oak  until  the  next 
morning,  as  darkness  was  likely  to  catch  him  alone  on 
the  mountains,  but  Guthrie  felt  no  apprehensions,  since 
the  trail  from  Lone  Oak  led  straight  out  to  Briarton 
and  nowhere  else. 

Ezra  bade  him  a  friendly  good-bye,  and  Guthrie  rode 
on,  not  sorry  to  be  alone,  because  there  were  times  when 
his  own  company  was  good  enough,  and  the  majesty  of 
the  mountains  appealed  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  the  East,  long  shadows  began  to  appear  on  the 
peaks  and  ridges,  and  the  rocks  burned  in  red  gold. 
Guthrie  stopped  once,  on  a  crest  and  looked  at  the  half 
of  the  world  that  was  beginning  already  to  feel  the  touch 
of  the  coming  twilight.  In  its  loneliness  and  its  solitary 
grandeur,  it  had  so  much  solemn  majesty  that  he  won- 
dered why  the  people  who  lived  in  such  a  world  did  not 
come  under  its  spell.  But  his  experience  in  the  moun- 
tains told  him  that  it  made  no  appeal  to  them,  put  no 
ennobling  thoughts  in  their  minds.  Hence  Guthrie 
concluded  that  strength  and  loftiness  of  charatcer  were 
not  developed  by  isolation  and  loneliness,  but  by  the 
constant  struggle  with  other  men.  As  for  himself,  he 
wanted  seclusion  only  at  intervals,  and  the  remainder 
of  his  time  he  wished  to  spend  in  a  crowded  and  there- 
fore more  interesting  and  stimulating  arena;  he  saw  no 
merit  in  avoiding  the  battle  of  life. 

The  twilight  deepened  on  the  eastern  peaks,  but  the 
west  was  yet  filled  with  the  fire  of  the  sun;  every  rock 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  151 

and  bush  there  stood  out  in  sharp  tracery  against  the 
blazing  heavens.  Guthrie  saw  now  that  he  would  not 
arrive  in  Briarton  until  long  after  dark,  but  he  was  yet 
without  fear.  His  horse,  bred  in  the  mountains,  was 
sure  of  foot,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  only  to  give  him 
rein  in  the  darkness  in  order  to  be  taken  safely  to  his 
destination. 

Some  figures  outlined  in  black  against  the  red  sun- 
light appeared  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain,  separated 
from  him  only  by  a  deep  ravine.  They  were  men  with 
guns  on  their  shoulders,  and  Guthrie  saw  that  they  were 
typical  mountaineers,  tall,  lean,  high  of  cheek-bone 
and  wary  of  eye.  They  were  watching  him,  and,  waving 
his  hand  to  them  in  friendly  fashion,  he  rode  calmly  on. 

"I  wonder  which  they  are,"  he  thought;  "the  Pikes 
or  theDilgers?"  and  he  found  himself  leaning  in  more 
friendly  fashion  toward  the  Pikes.  "This  won't  do," 
he  said ;  "  I  must  take  no  part  in  it,  even  if  Senator  Pike 
is  my  friend." 

The  mountaineers  looked  at  him  for  a  minute,  and 
then,  apparently  satisfied  that  he  was  a  harmless 
stranger,  disappeared  in  the  undergrowth.  How  like, 
it  all  was,  to  the  primeval  wilderness,  thought  Guthrie. 
It  was  the  primeval  wilderness — unchanged  in  four 
generations,  only  the  red  man  was  gone,  and  a  white 
man,  almost  as  wild  had  taken  his  place  1  When  the 
mountaineers  disappeared,  the  world  blazed  again,  red 
and  solitary  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Once  his 
horse  neighed,  and  the  echo  ran  trembling  among 
the  peaks. 

The  sun  fell  behind  the  wall  of  the  mountains,  and  the 
night  came  with  a  fine  shadowy  quality,  in  which  the 
peaks  and  the  ridges  rose  more  grandly  than  ever  and 


152  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

took  Protean  shapes.     The  trail  was  narrow,  but  it  lay 
clear  before  him,  and  Outline  rode  placidly  on. 

Late  in  the  night,  his  horse  raised  his  head  and  neighed 
again,  and  Guthrie  looked  down  into  a  little  valley  where 
he  saw  dark  blurs  that  he  knew  to  be  houses.  "Briar- 
ton!"  he  exclaimed  in  pleasure,  because  he  was  growing 
tired  and  sleepy,  and  he  had  been  alone  long  enough. 
The  thought  of  food,  fire,  and  a  bed  appealed  to  him. 

He  halted  his  horse  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked 
down  on  the  hamlet.  Peaceful  enough,  it  seemed  now, 
snuggling  between  the  cliffs,  with  the  moonlight  throw- 
ing stray  beams  on  the  log  walls.  Then  he  rode  on 
down  the  hillside,  and  a  man  rising  up  out  of  the  dark- 
ness bore  on  his  bridle  rein  with  a  heavy  hand. 

"Be  you  a-takin'  any  part  in  this,  stranger?"  asked 
the  phantom  figure. 

Guthrie  knew  well  what  he  meant  and  he  replied 
promptly: 

"Pike  or  Dilger,  it's  nothing  to  me!" 
"Then  what  do  you  want?" 

"Food  for  an  empty  stomach  and  a  bed  for  a  tired 
back." 

"Ride  on,  stranger,  you'll  find  both  below." 
Guthrie  resumed  his  journey.  The  questions,  as  he 
knew,  were  purely  formal— the  mountaineer  would 
naturally  infer  from  his  dress  and  manners  that  he  did 
not  belong  hi  the  country,  and  could  have  no  part  in  the 
quarrel. 

Briarton  in  the  wan  moonlight  was  a  beautiful  place, 
its  log-houses  frosted  with  silver,  the  little  creek  that 
dashed  down  from  the  mountains  foaming  over  the 
stones,  and  all  the  squalor  hidden  by  this  kindly  veil  of 
the  dark. 


INTO  THE  WILDERNESS  153 

He  beat  on  the  door  of  the  largest  log-house  in  the 
place,  and  a  woman  came  at  last  to  his  knock.  Yes, 
they  took  travellers,  she  said,  and  she  gave  his  horse  to 
a  sleepy  boy  whom  she  had  roused.  Then  she  raked 
together  the  smouldering  coals  on  the  hearth,  and  put 
on  more  wood.  Evidently,  like  Ezra,  she  took  Guthrie 
for  a  "drummer,"  although  she  looked  doubtfully  at 
the  small  size  of  his  valise.  Guthrie  wondered  what 
"drummers"  ever  came  to  this  remote  mountain  ham- 
let, and  what  they  came  for. 

He  obtained  food,  poor  in  itself  and  badly  cooked, 
but  hunger  was  an  ample  sauce.  As  he  ate,  he  managed 
to  draw  deftly  from  his  hostess  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened in  Briarton  save  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Pike,  which 
occurred  about  sundown,  and  was  a  great  event  in  the 
village.  Guthrie  inferred  readily  from  this  that  the 
hamlet  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Pikes,  and  he  could  not 
help  being  glad,  because  he  leaned  to  the  Senator's  side 
despite  his  resolution. 

After  his  supper,  he  warmed  himself,  and  went  to  bed 
in  the  single  spare  room  of  the  house.  It  was  a  rude 
little  apartment  with  a  worn  rag  carpet  on  the  floor,  and 
old  pictures  from  illustrated  papers  on  the  roughly 
plastered  walls;  but  the  bed  looked  soft  and  warm,  and 
Guthrie  was  content.  Before  drawing  down  the  covers, 
he  looked  out  at  the  little  window,  and  he  realised  again 
that  two  hundred  miles  and  thirty  hours  had  put  him  in 
another  world.  On  the  other  side  of  the  valley  rose  the 
bald  side  of  the  mountain,  gloomy  and  grand,  and  nearer 
by  flowed  the  creek,  its  waters  hurrying  noisily  over  the 
stones.  To  right  and  left  were  the  scattered  log  houses, 
all  dark  and  silent.  Everything  was  primitive  and  wild. 

Far  off  on  the  mountain,  he  suddenly  saw  a  single 


154  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

light  that  blazed  and  went  out.  Another  appeared 
lower  down  the  slope,  but  it,  too,  blazed  and  went  out, 
and  after  that  the  moonlight  was  unbroken.  Some  kind 
of  a  signal,  concluded  Guthrie,  but  he  felt  only  a  vague 
and  fleeting  interest  which  did  not  keep  him  from  going 
to  bed  in  another  minute  and  sleeping  soundly  through 
the  remainder  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  TEST  OF  STEEL 

GUTHRIE  would  have  slept  late  the  next  morning  had 
it  not  been  for  the  call  of  his  hostess  to  breakfast,  set  for 
a  certain  hour,  at  which  time  all  must  come  or  go  with- 
out. His  first  inquiry  was  for  the  Senator.  What  had 
become  of  him,  and  what  was  he  going  to  do?  Mr. 
Pike  was  to  preach  the  funeral  sermon  of  his  brother, 
and  the  woman  pointed  to  the  low  log  church  just  at  the 
base  of  the  mountain. 

Guthrie  felt  again  a  deep  thrill  of  sympathy  for 
this  man  who  was  trying  so  hard  to  lead  an  enlight- 
ened life,  but  whom  association  and  circumstance 
tried  in  so  fiery  a  crucible.  "Where  does  Mr. 
Pike  live?"  he  asked,  and  they  pointed  out  to  him 
a  large  frame  house,  standing  near  the  creek.  It 
was  the  only  one  in  the  place  not  of  logs,  and 
Guthrie  had  not  observed  it  the  night  before.  The 
immediate  impression  it  made  was  of  superiority  to 
its  surroundings,  just  as  he  knew  that  its  owner 
had  raised  himself  above  the  people  among  whom 
he  was  born. 

Guthrie,  acting  upon  his  impulse  of  sympathy, 
approached  the  house,  and  noticing  that  others  were 
entering  the  door,  fell  in  with  the  crowd  after  the 
mountain  custom  and  passed  inside.  The  people  with 
whom  he  went  included  both  men  and  women — all  with 

155 


156  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

the  mountain  stamp  upon  their  faces,  and  all  solemn 
and  gloomy.    Some  of  the  women  were  crying. 

Mr.  Pike  stood  at  the  door  of  a  large  room  in  the  cen- 
tre of  which  rested  the  coffin  of  his  brother.  The  Sena- 
tor's face  was  pale,  but  his  features  were  firm  and  com- 
posed, and  his  long,  black  frock  coat  was  buttoned 
tightly  about  his  body.  He  shook  hands  with  the  peo- 
ple one  by  one,  and,  when  he  came  to  Guthrie,  he  said 
simply,  "I  am  glad  that  you  are  here,  Mr.  Guthrie,  to 
share  our  grief." 

Guthrie,  by  the  necessity  of  his  career,  had  become 
familiar  with  scenes  of  sorrow,  and  he  had  looked  many 
times  upon  the  victims  of  violent  death;  but  none  stirred 
him  more  deeply  than  this  gathering  of  the  rude  moun- 
taineers about  their  dead.  Scarcely  a  word  was  said. 
He  heard  only  the  moving  of  feet  and  the  soft  crying  of 
the  women. 

Four  men  lifted  the  coffin  presently,  and  bore  it  from 
the  house  toward  the  church.  The  Senator  followed, 
bare-headed,  and  just  behind  and  after  him  came  the 
people  in  double  file — a  procession  of  mourners.  Guth- 
rie fell  into  line  beside  a  young  mountaineer,  and  hat  in 
hand  followed  on. 

The  day  was  not  like  its  predecessor;  the  sun  no 
longer  gilded  the  mountains;  instead  heavy,  leaden 
clouds  were  trooping  up  from  the  southwest.  Guthrie 
felt  once  the  touch  of  a  wet  snowflake  on  his  face. 

The  solemn  procession  entered  the  church,  and  the 
coffin,  the  body  within,  was  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
pulpit.  The  people  sat  on  the  rude  wooden  benches, 
filling  them  to  the  last  seat.  Then  the  Senator  ascended 
the  pulpit,  and  preached  the  funeral  sermon  of  his 
brother. 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  157 

Mr.  Pike  was  not  a  regularly  ordained  minister,  but 
he  possessed  the  gift  of  eloquence,  and,  in  the  mountains, 
where  religion  fills  so  large  a  share  of  discussion,  he 
often  preached.  The  secret  of  his  great  power  over 
these  people,  as  Guthrie  saw,  lay  in  his  superiority  of 
character  and  culture,  his  readiness  of  speech,  and  his 
capacity  for  the  happy  phrase.  He  had,  in  this  moment 
of  grief  and  tension,  a  rapt  and  solemn  air  as  of  one  who 
is  an  interpreter  between  this  world  and  the  next 

Mr.  Pike  spoke  of  the  hereafter  as  a  place  of  safety 
and  rest — the  simile  was  inevitable  in  the  mountains 
where  vigilance  was  the  best  guard  against  danger — 
and  he  described  our  path  in  this  life  as  beset  with 
thorns.  Short  were  the  days  of  man  and  full  of  sorrow! 
It  was  only  in  the  hereafter  that  joy  true  and  lasting 
came.  Then  he  spoke  simply  of  his  brother,  so  many 
years  younger  than  himself — who  had  always  been  but 
a  boy  to  him — and  of  his  sudden  end — without  a 
moment's  warning! 

He  made  no  threats  against  those  who  had  slain  his 
brother — he  never  called  their  names;  but  through  all 
his  sermon  ran  an  indefinable  note  which  seemed  to  say, 
"Vengeance  is  the  Lord's — but  man  may  be  his  instru- 
ment," and  Guthrie  knew  that  Mr.  Pike  felt  in  his  heart 
he  was  "the  man." 

The  Senator  talked  on.  All  hung  on  his  words. 
These  were  his  people,  and  he  swayed  them  alike  as  he 
inclined  to  vengeance  or  to  the  blessings  of  the  here- 
after. Guthrie,  too,  followed,  both  his  sympathy  and 
his  interest  keeping  him  intent  upon  every  sentence  that 
fell  from  the  speaker's  lips.  Once  he  glanced  through 
the  window,  and  saw  that  clouds  darker  and  heavier 
than  ever  were  filing  in  solemn  procession  across  the 


158 

sky.  Now  and  then  a  snowflake  struck  the  glass,  and 
the  wall  of  the  mountain  looked  black  and  threatening. 

The  quality  in  the  speaker's  sermon  that  seemed  to 
indicate  the  note  of  vengeance  appeared  again,  and 
Guthrie  saw  its  effect  on  the  faces  of  the  audience  which 
grew  black  and  lowering;  but  in  a  moment  Mr.  Pike 
shifted  to  the  peace  of  the  hereafter,  and  in  another 
minute  or  two  closed.  Then  he  made  a  short  prayer 
touching  in  its  simplicity  and  pathos,  and  descended 
from  the  pulpit. 

The  solemn  procession  began  its  march  again,  and 
passed  out  of  the  church  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
where  the  burial  took  place;  after  which  the  crowd  dis- 
persed slowly,  leaving  the  Senator  and  Guthrie  together. 
Guthrie  knew  that  they  burned  with  curiosity  about  him, 
and  later  would  ask  him  questions,  especially  as  they 
saw  that  Mr.  Pike  and  he  were  friends.  However,  for 
the  present,  they  let  him  alone. 

The  Senator  stood  a  little  while  beside  the  freshly- 
turned  earth  as  if  in  silent  prayer,  and  then  turning 
away  put  on  his  hat,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Guthrie. 

"  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  want  you  to  come, 
but  since  you  are  here,  I  am  glad  of  it.  Somehow,  you 
seem  to  me  to  represent  that  other  world  beyond  the 
mountains,  and,  in  your  person,  it  mourns  beside  my 
brother's  grave.  I  thank  you  " 

Guthrie  gave  the  Senator's  hand  a  sympathetic  clasp, 
and  then  the  two  walked  together  among  the  trees. 
He  saw  that  Mr.  Pike  must  speak  to  some  one, 
must  find  somewhere  an  outlet  for  his  feelings,  and  he 
listened  in  silence  and  sympathy.  A  secret  of  his  popu- 
larity with  men  of  influence  and  power  was  this  ability 
t:>  listen  well. 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  159 

The  Senator  talked  of  his  brother  and  himself,  of 
the  mountains  and  the  world  beyond,  and  Guthrie 
listened,  absorbed.  Both  forgot  the  clouds  and  the 
falling  snow.  The  flakes  fell  faster  and  larger.  Al- 
ready the  new  grave  behind  them  was  covered,  and, 
had  they  looked  to  see,  they  would  have  found  that  the 
crests  of  the  peaks  and  the  ridges  were  lost  in  the  mists. 
The  damp  winds  from  the  southwest  came  on  a  front 
of  snow. 

But  neither  Guthrie  nor  the  Senator  yet  noticed. 
The  stoicism  of  the  mountaineer  in  this  moment  of 
grief  and  in  the  company  of  the  warm,  human  sym- 
pathy that  Guthrie  gave  him  was  broken  at  last.  He 
told  how  he  had  struggled  to  stop  the  feud,  how  he  had 
tried  to  rise  above  the  feelings  of  passion  and  revenge, 
and  to  train  his  people  also  to  set  their  minds  on  higher 
objects.  He  was  borne  up,  there  in  the  capital,  by  the 
comradeship  and  friendship  of  men  who  had  seen  more 
of  the  world  than  he,  and  he  had  believed  that,  through 
his  efforts,  peace  would  last  in  his  part  of  the  moun- 
tains. Then  came  messengers  telling  of  threatened 
trouble,  and  informing  him  that  the  Dilgers  would 
seek  to  renew  the  strife.  He  had  not  believed,  he  had 
looked  upon  it  as  a  false  alarm,  and  the  messages  were 
renewed,  more  emphatic  than  ever;  then  came  the 
news  of  his  brother's  death,  and  he  had  tried  to  endure 
it  like  a  Christian  man,  preaching  Christian  resigna- 
tion to  himself. 

This  and  much  more  he  poured  forth,  often  dis- 
jointed or  half-finished,  but  as  clear  as  water  to  Guthrie. 
He  saw  the  dual  nature  struggling  in  the  man — the  old 
mountain  doctrine,  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth,  the  inheritance  of  birth,  and  through  all  the 


160  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

years  of  his  boyhood  deemed  a  matter  of  course,  and 
the  new  principles  of  peace  learned  in  manhood.  He 
was  now  face  to  face  with  the  most  powerful  test,  and 
Guthrie  thrilled  once  more  with  sympathy  for  this  man 
whom  he  liked  so  much,  and  to  whom  fate  had  been 

so  unkind. 

Their  walk  led  them  far  into  the  forest,  which  ex- 
tended along  the  base  of  the  mountains,  a  wood  of  tall 
oak  and  beech  with  a  dense  growth  of  underbrush. 
The  two  men  followed  a  path  which  seemed  to  be 
fairly  well-trodden  like  a  mountain  trail.  Guthrie 
looked  up,  and  was  surprised  to  find  the  boughs  cov- 
ered with  snow.  The  skies  cleared  for  the  moment, 
and  shone  in  vivid  blue;  beneath  this,  the  trees  veiled 
in  snow  were  cones  of  white.  The  forest  was  silent, 
save  for  the  occasional  soft  drop  of  snow  or  the  crack- 
ing of  a  dry  branch  under  its  weight.  The  air  once 
more  was  pure  and  fresh. 

Guthrie  looked  back,  and  the  hamlet  was  lost  among 
the  trees.  The  two,  absorbed,  the  one  in  talk  and 
the  other  in  listening,  had  passed  deep  into  the  forest. 
To  all  intents,  it  was  still  the  primeval  wilderness 
in  its  winter  robe  of  white  Save  themselves  there 
was  no  sign  of  a  human  being  or  a  human  habita- 
tion. All  around  them  under  the  trees  stretched  the 
snow,  white  and  untrodden.  Seemingly  the  world 
was  wrapped  in  a  great  peace— but  it  was  only  for  a 
moment. 

The  Senator  suddenly  grasped  Guthrie  by  the  arm 
and  exclaimed,  "Did  you  not  hear  a  footstep?" 
But  Guthrie  heard  nothing;  the  forest  ear  was  more 
acute  than  his.  The  next  instant,  the  hand  of  the 
Senator  tightened  on  his  arm,  and  he  was  dragged 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  161 

down  in  the  snow.  Then  he  heard  a  sharp  report 
that  sounded  to  him  like  the  cracking  of  a  great  whip, 
and  a  buzz  as  of  something  passing  with  lightning  speed 
over  their  heads.  He  looked  up  and  saw  a  brown, 
evil  face,  fifty  yards  away  thrust  from  behind  a  tree- 
trunk,  and  a  pair  of  brown  hands  lowering  a  rifle  bar- 
rel. He  heard  the  Senator  exclaim,  "Pete  Dilgerl" 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  knew  from  what  he 
had  heard  in  the  village  that  Pete  Dilger  was  the  worst 
of  all  the  Dilgers. 

The  Senator  was  up  before  him,  and  Guthrie  was 
stunned  by  the  change  in  his  friend.  Every  trace  of 
the  civilised  man  had  disappeared  from  his  face.  He 
was  crouched  like  an  Indian  in  ambush,  and  a  huge 
self-acting  revolver  was  held  in  his  right  hand.  The 
high  and  sharp  cheek  -  bones  looked  higher  and 
sharper  than  ever,  and  the  cruel  black  eyes  glittered 
with  the  passion  and  joy  of  revenge.  His  hat  had 
fallen  off,  and  the  long,  straight  black  hair,  sweeping 
back  from  his  brow,  continued  the  likeness  of  the 
Indian. 

But,  even  in  this  tense  moment,  the  man  was  not  for- 
getful of  his  friend.  Sweeping  Guthrie  back  with  his 
left  hand,  he  cried:  "Go  back!  You  have  nothing 
to  do  with  this!"  Then  he  ran  into  the  forest,  directly 
toward  the  point  where  the  ambushed  marksman  had 
lain,  and  Guthrie  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dilger  seeking 
a  new  place  of  concealment.  Then  the  trees  shut  both 
from  his  view,  and  he  was  alone. 

Guthrie  stood  on  the  spot  where  the  Senator,  fore- 
seeing the  shot,  had  pulled  him  down.  The  paralysis 
of  the  moment  passed,  and  he  tried  to  choose  a  course. 
He  had  no  doubt  that  the  Dilgers  now  identified  him 


162  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

as  a  Pike  follower,  because  he  was  in  the  company  of 
Mr.  Pike.  The  Senator  was  right  when  he  had  told 
him  to  stay  away. 

Guthrie  had  all  an  enlightened  man's  horror  of 
strife  and  bloodshed,  but  he  thought  nothing  then  of 
the  way  that  he  had  suddenly  been  projected  into  this 
mountain  feud.  All  his  thoughts  were  of  the  Senator. 
Would  there  be  a  duel  between  him  and  Dilger,  or 
would  Dilger  lead  him  into  an  ambush?  He  was 
tempted  for  the  moment,  to  follow  them  by  their  tracks 
in  the  snow,  but  that  would  be  folly  in  an  unarmed 
man,  and  he  obeyed  his  second  impulse  to  hurry  to  the 
village  and  secure  help  for  the  Senator.  He  did  not 
realise  in  the  moment  of  excitement  and  suspense  that 
he  had  become  an  ally  of  the  Pikes,  nor  would  he  have 
stopped,  had  he  realised  it. 

He  ran  a  few  steps,  and  then  he  stopped  again.  Un- 
armed though  he  was,  he  could  not  leave  the  Senator 
alone  in  a  struggle!  even  if  he  procured  help  in  the  vil- 
lage, all  would  be  over  before  he  could  arrive.  He  looked 
about  him,  and  saw  again  the  world  in  white— the 
world  of  mid-winter,  deep,  still,  and  cold,  but  a  cold 
that  sent  the  blood  leaping  through  the  veins,  cleared 
the  brain,  and  doubled  the  strength  of  every  nerve  and 
muscle. 

Hills  and  valleys  were  covered  with  snow,  soiled  by 
no  human  foot.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  forest 
save  the  crack  of  some  bough  breaking  beneath  the 
load  of  snow. 

Guthrie  stood  at  his  full  height,  and  inhaled  deep 
draughts  of  the  cold,  pure  air,  feeling  that  he  was  a 
strong  man  in  a  world  of  strong  men  and  could  care 
for  himself.  A  bough  fifty  yards  away  broke  with  a 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  163 

crack  louder  than  the  rest,  and  its  weight  of  snow  fell 
with  a  soft,  crushing  sound. 

He  saw  a  heavy  stick  lying  at  his  feet,  and  he  stooped 
to  pick  it  up  for  lack  of  a  better  weapon.  Again  he 
did  not  realise  that  some  of  his  own  civilisation  was 
slipping  from  him,  and  he  was  becoming  the  hunter — 
the  hunter  of  men. 

As  he  bent  down  to  pick  up  the  stick,  he  heard  a 
slight  noise,  and  his  eyes  wandered  around  the  circle 
of  the  horizon  until  they  reached  a  clump  of  bushes  on 
his  right.  There  they  stopped,  and  the  hand  that  held 
the  club  remained  suspended  in  the  air. 

The  surprise  was  so  sudden,  so  terrible,  that  Guthrie 
felt  for  an  instant  as  if  his  veins  had  become  empty  of 
blood  and  he  were  a  lifeless  thing.  He  took  only  one 
brief  glance,  but  he  saw  distinctly  every  feature  of  Dil- 
ger — the  leathern  face,  the  black,  exultant  eyes,  and 
above  all  the  rifle  held  in  steady  hands.  He  knew  that 
Dilger  took  him  for  an  ally  of  the  Pikes.  And  what 
else  was  he  now  ?  He  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  merciless 
man. 

Guthrie,  by  a  supreme  effort,  recovered  command  of 
himself.  One  glance  at  the  cruel,  taunting  face  had 
shown  him  that  the  mountaineer,  with  the  instincts  of 
the  savage  would  wish  to  enjoy  his  triumph,  to  play  a 
few  moments  with  his  victim  before  sending  the  fatal 
bullet.  So  he  pretended  not  to  see,  and  sinking  to  his 
knees  began  to  brush  the  snow  off  the  stick.  Perhaps 
the  Senator  might  come!  Mr.  Pike  might  save  him; 
it  was  a  faint  chance,  the  shred  of  a  hope,  rather;  but 
the  soul  of  Guthrie  clung  desperately  to  it. 

His  eyes,  in  spite  of  himself  and  his  will,  wandered 
from  the  stick,  and  were  dazzled  by  the  flood  that  the 


164  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

sun  poured  over  the  snow.  The  world,  tantalising 
him,  suddenly  grew  brighter.  There  was  a  new  and 
deeper  tint  of  blue  in  the  sky;  the  snow  gleamed  like 
marble;  countless  silver  rays  flashed  from  the  slopes. 

Guthrie  went  on  mechanically  with  his  task,  but  his 
brain  grew  dizzy.  The  world  was  in  a  whirl.  His 
mind  ran  back  through  the  dim,  discoloured  mist  that 
is  called  the  past,  and  then  tried  to  enter  the  future. 
But,  out  of  the  vagueness,  rose  one  fact,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, and  it  was  the  knowledge  that  he  wanted  to  live. 

He  cast  a  glance  from  under  his  bent  brows  at  the 
mountaineer  and  saw  him  still  standing  there  at  the 
edge  of  the  thicket  with  his  rifle  levelled,  savage,  im- 
placable, never  dreaming  of  mercy. 

Another  swift  glance,  and  he  saw  a  figure  appear  in 
the  forest  on  the  left,  a  tall  man  wrapped  in  a  long 
black  coat — the  Senator.  He  knew  that  Dilger,  intent 
upon  his  victim,  had  missed  the  approach  of  his  real 
enemy.  But  the  Senator,  the  skilful  and  wary,  would 
see,  and  Guthrie  waited.  The  faint  hope,  that  was 
scarcely  a  hope,  sprang  up. 

Would  he  be  in  time  ?  If  only  fate  would  give  him 
ten  seconds!  If  not  that,  five!  Five  would  be  enough, 
but  the  Senator  might  miss,  even  if  he  were  first!  But 
that  was  impossible!  He  ought  not  to  wrong  his  faith- 
ful comrade  so. 

He  longed  to  look  up  again,  but  he  dared  not  glance 
at  either  mountaineer.  He  could  not  know  which 
finger  was  nearer  the  trigger,  but  he  must  await,  as  if 
in  unconcern,  that  second  of  difference  which  meant 
life  or  death  to  him.  Nothing  that  he  could  do  would 
alter  the  future  by  a  hair. 

The  whiteness  and  glitter  of  the  world  dazzled  him. 


With  rifle  levelled,  savage,  implacable,  never  dreaming  of  mercy" 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  165 

The  hand  that  held  the  stick  became  wet.  He  affected 
carelessness,  and  began  to  hum  a  song,  unconscious  of 
the  words  he  spoke.  He  grew  impatient.  Better  the 
bullet  of  the  wrong  man  than  to  endure  this  terrible 
tension!  There  was  still  not  a  sound  in  the  forest. 
The  snow  had  ceased  to  fall  from  the  boughs.  He  did 
not  hear  his  own  breathing. 

His  muscles  seemed  to  relax,  to  give  way.  His  head 
bent  lower.  He  was  afraid  that  he  would  fall. 

The  report  of  a  pistol  and  a  cry  so  close  together  that 
they  seemed  one,  rang  in  his  ears,  and,  with  a  wild  shout 
of  relief,  excitement,  and  joy,  his  face  white  to  the  brow, 
Guthric  sprang  to  his  feet  as  the  Senator,  a  smoking 
revolver  in  his  hand,  ran  forward. 

The  relief  from  the  tension  and  the  expectation  of 
death  was  so  great  that  Guthrie  stood  for  a  few  moments 
white  and  dizzy.  Then,  mechanically,  he  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  face. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  stupor  by  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Pike  bent  over  the  fallen  man,  every  line  of  his  face 
expressing  the  thought,  "O,  mine  enemy,  thou  art  de- 
livered into  my  hands!" 

Dilger  was  not  dead.  Guthrie  could  see  that  he 
was  merely  stunned  by  the  bullet,  as  his  chest  rose  and 
fell  with  almost  regular  motion,  but  his  gaze  wandered 
away  from  the  face  of  the  desperado  to  that  of  the  Sen- 
ator. Mr.  Pike,  too,  was  still  the  Indian— the  garment  of 
civilisation  was  yet  doffed.  Beneath  his  hand  lay  his 
mortal  enemy,  and  all  his  mountain  code,  imbibed  with 
the  milk  that  he  had  drawn  from  his  mother's  breast, 
told  him  to  fire  again. 

Guthrie  was  still  under  the  spell.  He  had  been 
fascinated  when  he  saw  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  aimed  at 


166  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

himself,  and  now  he  was  motionless  when  he  beheld 
the  finger  of  Mr.  Pike  creep  toward  the  trigger  of  his 
revolver. 

Dilger  lay  prone  and  relaxed,  and  the  blood  from  his 
wound  soaked  redly  in  the  snow.  Guthrie  wondered 
where  the  second  bullet  would  strike,  and  then  he  saw 
the  muzzle  of  the  Senator's  pistol  cover  the  man's 
heart.  Like  Dilger,  the  victor  would  enjoy  for  a 
moment  his  triumph. 

The  fallen  man  stirred,  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked 
up.  A  gleam  of  intelligence  appeared  on  his  face  as 
his  gaze  met  that  of  his  triumphant  enemy,  and  then 
it  became  full  of  malignant  ferocity.  He  was  the  sav- 
age still,  asking  no  mercy,  expressing  only  hate. 

"I  sent  your  brother  on  before,"  he  said  in  tones 
feeble  but  defiant. 

The  eyes  of  the  Senator  flashed,  and  his  finger  touched 
the  trigger.  Guthrie  at  that  moment  remembered, 
and  the  fire  of  the  hunter  died  within  him;  all  his  in- 
stincts rebelled  at  what  he  was  about  to  see. 

"Mr.  Pike,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  cannot  kill  a  man 
who  is  lying  at  your  mercy!" 

"He  is  a  murderer— you  heard  him— and  the  enemy 
of  my  people!" 

But  Guthrie  had  the  gift  of  boldness  and  eloquence 
in  great  emergencies,  and  now  he  rose  to  the  crisis. 
He  seized  the  Senator's  uplifted  arm,  and  turned  the 
pistol  away;  he  bade  him  remember  who  and  what 
he  was,  a  leader  of  his  people,  one  who  should  set  to 
them  a  great  example.  The  Senator  strove  to  raise 
the  pistol  again,  put  Guthrie  held  his  wrist  with  a  firm 
hand,  and  he  saw  the  whole  struggle  written  upon  the 
man's  face  as  it  passed  in  his  mind.  The  old  elemental 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  167 

impulse  to  kill  the  enemy  who  sought  to  kill  him  was 
strong  within  him;  but  the  voice  of  a  severer  and  better 
world  of  duty  was  calling  in  the  voice  of  this  friend,  who 
had  shared  his  danger  and  bade  him  to  remember  the 
new  teaching.  Guthrie  struck  the  right  chord  when 
he  appealed  to  his  religion,  and  the  second  half  of  the 
mountaineer's  dual  nature,  his  humble  piety,  rose  in 
the  ascendant.  Gradually  the  flame  of  passion  died 
in  the  Senator's  eyes,  and  at  last  he  put  the  pistol  in  his 
pocket,  and  said  to  Guthrie: 

"You  do  not  know  how  much  you  are  asking  of  me! " 

"I  can  guess,"  replied  Guthrie.  "He  is  a  murderer, 
and  should  be  hanged;  but  let  it  be  done  by  law." 

"Yes,  he  shall  hang,"  said  the  Senator  fiercely,  "if 
there  is  justice  to  be  had  in  the  mountains!" 

Dilger  raised  himself  on  his  elbow — they  had  taken 
away  his  weapons — and  was  gazing  wonderingly  at  his 
enemy,  as  if  he  could  not  understand  his  action — and 
perhaps  he  could  not — but  the  Senator  with  folded  arms 
and  melancholy  eyes  merely  gazed  down  at  him. 

Guthrie  suggested  that  he  go  to  the  town  for  help 
while  Mr.  Pike  remain  on  guard,  and,  as  the  other  nod- 
ded assent,  he  hastened  away  in  the  snow,  but  he  looked 
back  once,  and  saw  the  erect,  black-clothed,  and  melan- 
choly figure  still  standing  by  the  fallen  man. 

Much  of  Guthrie's  excitement  slipped  from  him  as 
he  went  on.  The  tenseness  of  those  moments  back 
there  had  been  too  great  to  last,  and  once  more  he 
looked  with  a  seeing  eye  at  the  forests,  the  mountains, 
and  the  sky.  The  snow  had  fallen  again,  and  the  still- 
ness of  old  reigned  in  the  forest.  He  no  longer  saw  a 
human  being  nor  heard  the  sound  of  a  footstep  save  his 
own.  The  scene  back  there  might  have  been  the  phan- 


168  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

tasy  of  a  moment,  but  its  impression  was  too  deep,  too 
vivid,  to  pass,  and  he  hastened  on  to  the  village. 

When  he  returned  with  help,  they  found  Dilger  still 
on  his  elbow,  and  the  Senator  yet  standing  over  him, 
silent  and  sombre.  Great  was  the  surprise  of  the  peo- 
ple to  find  the  leader  of  the  Pikes,  with  the  power  of 
vengeance  upon  his  worst  enemy  in  his  hand,  and  as  yet 
unused;  and  mingled  with  this  surprise  was  a  strain 
by  no  means  of  approval.  What  had  come  upon  the 
Senator?  Had  he  lost  a  part  of  his  courage?  After 
all,  was  he  fit  for  leadership?  Guthrie  remembered 
those  words  of  the  Senator's,  "You  do  not  know  how 
much  you  are  asking  of  me!"  and  their  truth  struck 
home.  The  chief  had  fallen  a  notch  in  the  opinion 
of  his  people. 

But  they  took  up  Dilger,  and  carried  him  to  the  vil- 
lage. His  wound  was  not  serious,  the  mountain  doctor 
said,  and  they  locked  him  in  the  little  log  jail,  to  await 
his  trial  for  murder.  But  Guthrie,  as  he  went  about 
the  place,  soon  saw  that  other  plans  were  afoot.  They 
were  all  Pikes  in  Briarton,  and  their  leader,  they  said, 
should  have  shot  Dilger  down  when  he  had  the  chance; 
since  he  had  not  done  so — well,  they  could  supply  the 
want  of  forethought;  they  knew  too  much  to  wait  on 
along  trial,  the  testimony  of  perjured  witnesses,  and  the 
innumerable  delays  that  the  law  knows  how  to  invent. 
Guthrie  saw  before  him  all  the  elements  of  a  lynching, 
but  these  elements  were  not  yet  gathered  into  an  ag- 
gressive whole,  and  swift  action  might  prevent  it.  As 
there  was  no  one  but  himself  to  take  the  initiative,  he 
resolved  to  act. 

First,  however,  he  would  see  the  Senator,  and  he 
went  to  his  house.  Alone  in  the  large  room  where  the 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  169 

body  of  his  brother  had  rested,  he  found  him  sitting — 
staring  out  at  the  mountain  side  but  not  seeing  it.  To 
Guthrie's  great  surprise,  his  whole  attitude  was  that  of 
one  crushed ;  there  was  no  triumph  over  the  capture  of 
his  foe,  but  the  droop  of  one  who  had  failed. 

Guthrie,  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  sense  the  intimate 
friend  and  associate  of  the  Senator,  went  up  to  him,  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  The  older  man  raised 
his  pale  face. 

"  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  and  there  was  pathos  in  his 
voice,  "you  see  me  in  my  shame.  I  have  tried  to  be  a 
man.  I  told  you  once  before  how  I  have  sought  to 
raise  myself  above  the  surroundings  amid  which  I  was 
born — to  make  myself  a  leader  among  my  people,  a  real 
leader,  not  one  who  goes  the  way  they  wish  him  to  go, 
but  the  way  he  thinks  they  ought  to  go." 

"And  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  such,"  said  Guth- 
rie. "I  do  not  see  wherein  you  have  failed." 

"Out  there  in  the  forest  I  failed;  when  Dilger  lay  at 
my  mercy,  I  would  have  killed  him,  not  from  motives  of 
justice,  but  from  revenge.  Everything  that  I  have 
schooled  myself  for  twenty  years  to  learn  was  swept 
away  by  the  impulse  of  a  moment.  Had  you  not  been 
there,  I  should  not  have  held  my  hand;  we  are  weak 
clay,  Mr.  Guthrie!" 

Guthrie  felt  much  sorrow,  as  he  liked  Mr.  Pike  and 
gave  him  his  full  esteem.  He  knew  no  man  whom  he 
held  more  highly,  but,  for  a  few  moments,  he  said  noth- 
ing, looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  snow  that  was  still 
falling.  Then  he  glanced  at  Mr.  Pike  who  had  settled 
back  in  his  chair,  his  whole  figure  expressive  of  apathy. 
He  must  be  roused  to  action,  thought  Guthrie,  and  he 
spoke  to  him  again.  He  told  him  of  his  fears,  of  the 


170  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

talk  of  a  lynching,  and  he  appealed  to  Mr.  Pike's  pride. 
A  flash  appeared  in  the  Senator's  eyes  when  he  heard 
the  news,  and  his  figure  swelled  anew  with  life. 

"That  I  will  stop!"  he  exclaimed;  "I  did  not  spare 
Dilger  to  have  them  lynch  him.  My  people  are  against 
me  now;  well,  I  shall  give  them  cause!" 

But  Guthrie  even  knew  better  than  the  Senator  how 
much  he  had  lost  in  authority,  and,  though  he  did  not 
believe  he  could  prevent  what  the  people  in  the  village 
were  meditating,  yet  he  deemed  worth  while,  for  the 
Senator's  own  sake,  that  he  should  try. 

He  saw  the  Senator,  as  he  sought  to  persuade  the  peo- 
ple, feel  all  the  pride  of  having  done  a  right  deed.  The 
revulsion  had  come,  and  once  more  he  was  the  civilised 
man  striving  for  the  better  path.  But  Guthrie  noted  how 
little  Mr.  Pike's  words  affected  them,  how  the  venge- 
ful faces  did  not  change,  and,  long  before  nightfall,  a 
messenger,  heavily  paid,  was  riding  over  the  mountains 
to  Sayville,  bearing  Guthrie's  report  of  the  news  and  a 
brief  despatch  to  Governor  Hastings,  also  signed  by 
him  and  saying,  "The  leader  of  the  Dilgers  is  in  jail 
here,  and  will  be  lynched  unless  the  militia  come  at 
once." 

Throughout  that  night  which  was  dark  and  lowering, 
with  a  raw  wind  off  the  peaks,  the  people  were  quiet, 
but  the  next  morning  they  began  to  gather  again,  hav- 
ing received  fresh  recruits  from  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. Guthrie  feared  that  the  explosion  would  come  at 
once,  but  then  the  snow  began  to  fall,  not  as  before 
slowly  and  lazily,  but  in  great  flakes  that  trod  upon 
each  other  heels — so  fast  they  came.  Never  before 
had  he  seen  such  a  day.  The  sky  was  rimmed  in 
with  heavy,  threatening  clouds  through  which  the  sun 


THE  TEST  OF  STEEL  171 

shone  with  only  a  faint  coppery  tint,  as  if  it  were  the 
faint  reflection  of  a  great  fire,  and,  from  these  clouds,  the 
snow  poured  and  poured  until  the  last  trace  of  the  sun 
was  lost,  and  there  was  left  only  the  brown  sky  above 
and  the  white  world  below. 

The  snow  stopped  never  for  a  moment  during  the 
day  nor  during  the  night  that  followed,  seeming  rather 
to  increase  in  volume,  and  the  next  day  it  was  still  com- 
ing down  as  fast  as  ever.  The  people,  forgetting  the 
lynching,  huddled  in  their  houses,  and  Guthrie,  at  Mr. 
Pike's,  looked  out  aghast.  His  messenger  had  not  come 
back  from  Sayville — he  could  not;  the  snow  already 
lay  three  feet  deep  on  the  levels  and  untold  feet  in  the 
clefts  and  the  ravines,  and  nowhere  was  there  a  break 
in  the  great  white  fall. 

Day  followed  day,  and  the  snow  still  heaped  up  around 
Sayville,  and  the  imprisoned  Guthrie  raged  at  the 
thought  of  the  capital  and  the  trial  of  Carton  now  at 
hand,  and  he  far  away. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  GREAT  SNOW 

IN  the  capital,  there  was  much  talk  of  both  Guthrie 
and  the  Senator.  Guthrie  in  his  world  was  a  person- 
age, and  held  an  established  position  in  public  affairs; 
when  he  went  away,  one  always  felt  that  something  was 
gone.  It  was  known  that  he  had  departed  on  a  mo- 
ment's notice  with  Mr.  Pike,  to  watch  the  course  of  a 
mountain  feud  that  might  involve  larger  interests,  and 
the  people  were  curious  to  hear  the  result. 

Then  a  telegraphic  message  came  to  the  Governor 
from  Guthrie,  dated  at  Sayville  and  saying,  "The 
leader  of  the  Dilgers  is  in  jail  here,  and  will  be  lynched 
unless  the  militia  come  at  once."  Then  the  Times 
came  down  from  the  metropolis  with  a  full  account  of 
the  sensational  events  at  Briarton,  and  the  little  capital 
was  stirred  by  the  news. 

The  Governor  was  at  his  house  when  the  despatch 
was  handed  to  him.  After  he  read  it,  his  face  was  very 
grave,  as  he  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Guthrie,  and 
knew  that  he  would  not  send  such  a  message  unless 
there  was  full  need  of  it.  Guthrie  was  the  last  man  to 
assume  the  responsibilities  of  an  official  when  he  was 
only  a  private  person. 

He  went  into  the  room  where  his  wife  sat  with  Clarice 
Ransome  and  Mary  Pelham  before  a  great  fire  of  hick- 
ory logs,  and,  when  he  saw  them,  a  smile  lighted  up  the 

172 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  173 

young  Governor's  somewhat  worn  face — there  had  been 
much  to  worry  him  that  winter,  and  his  hours  of  sleep 
were  short  and  troubled.  But  he  was  not  blind,  and 
the  presence,  in  his  house,  of  three  young  and  beautiful 
women,  one  of  whom  was  his  wife,  was  always  a  source 
of  cheerfulness. 

"You  have  a  telegram,"  said  Lucy,  when  she  saw  the 
slip  of  yellow  paper  in  his  hands.  "Who wants  an  ap- 
pointment ?  " 

"Nobody;  it's  a  request  for  something  bigger  this 
time." 

"And  can  you  give  it?"  asked  Clarice. 

"Oh!  yes,  because  in  this  case  I  can  be  an  Indian- 
giver,  and  take  the  gift  back  before  long.  It's  from  Mr. 
William  Guthrie,  and  he  wants  a  whole  company  of 
militia." 

Clarice  had  been  paying  only  vague  attention 
before,  but  now  she  looked  up  with  keen  interest.  Then 
she  flushed  slightly,  and  looked  into  the  fire  again.  In 
what  way  did  William  Guthrie  and  his  deeds  concern 
her?  But  she  thought  it  necessary  to  say  something. 

"Then  they  have  been  fighting  again  up  there  in  the 
mountains?"  she  asked. 

"I  fancy  so,"  replied  the  Governor.  "At  least  this 
despatch  from  Guthrie  says  that  the  leader  of  the  Dil- 
gers  is  in  jail  at  Briarton,  and  will  certainly  be  lynched 
unless  I  send  a  company  of  militia  to  hold  the  place." 

"There  must  have  been  fighting,"  said  Clarice.  She 
felt  a  thrill  of  mingled  excitement  and  apprehension. 
She  had  been  reading  a  letter  from  Raoul  that  morning 
—a  letter  full  of  pretty  phrases  and  the  lighter  gossip  of 
Old  World  capitals,  and  again  she  made  the  involuntary 
contrast.  She  could  not  conceive  of  Raoul  up  there 


174  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

among  the  peaks  with  those  wild  mountaineers,  risking 
his  life  perhaps.  Raoul  always  dressed  beautifully,  and 
his  manners  were  irreproachable,  which  facts  appealed 
to  her,  but — she  liked  masculinity  in  men.  She  was 
troubled  by  her  thoughts,  and  again  she  feared  that  she 
was  unjust  to  Raoul,  the  man  whom  she  was  to  marry. 

"Why  so  solemn,  Miss  Ransome?"  asked  the  Gov- 
ernor, noticing  her  grave  face. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  would  not  answer  that 
question,  and  smiled. 

"  I  think  you  are  trying  to  get  advice  as  to  what  to  do," 
she  said,  "and  I  refuse  to  give  it.  You  are  Governor, 
and  you  must  carry  the  burdens  of  the  office." 

"Oh,  I  don't  need  any  advice  in  this  matter!"  said 
Paul  in  the  same  vein,  and  then  changing  to  an  earnest 
manner:  "I  have  complete  confidence  in  Guthrie;  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  county  officials  should  apply  for  the 
militia  company,  but,  within  half  an  hour,  I  shall  order 
the  company  at  Waterford,  which  is  just  at  the  edge  of 
the  mountains,  to  proceed  in  all  haste  to  Briarton  and 
hold  the  jail  there.  I  sincerely  hope  that  nothing  will 
happen  to  Guthrie." 

He  looked  obliquely  but  keenly  at  Clarice  when  he 
spoke  of  Guthrie,  but  she,  gazing  into  the  fire  again, 
seemed  not  to  notice,  and  the  faint  deepening  of  the  red 
in  her  cheeks  might  easily  be  the  reflection  of  its  blaze. 

But  Lucy  spoke. 

"I  do  not  believe  that  anything  will  happen  to  Mr. 
Guthrie,"  she  said.  "  If  anybody  can  take  care  of  him- 
self, it  is  he." 

The  Governor  went  to  the  window,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  sweep  of  hills  about  the  capital. 

"  I  fear  ugly  weather,"  he  said.     "  Look  at  those  dirty 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  175 

brown  clouds — they  are  stuffed  so  full  of  snow  that  they 
seem  ready  to  burst  this  very  minute!" 

It  had  been  snowing  lightly  that  morning,  and  after- 
ward the  sun  shone  for  a  while;  but,  as  the  Governor 
spoke  the  clouds  opened  again,  and  the  great  heavy 
flakes  began  to  fall.  In  a  few  moments,  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  dropping  shower. 

This  State  is  called  southern  by  those  in  the  North, 
but  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  it  is  called  northern  by 
those  farther  south,  and  it  knows  long  and  cold  winters. 
This  was  famous  as  the  "winter  of  the  great  snow." 
It  fell  throughout  the  whole  length  of  the  State  from 
east  to  west  nearly  four  hundred  miles,  and,  even  in  the 
low  and  level  country,  three  feet  of  it  lay,  while,  in  the 
mountains,  it  was  heaped  to  incredible  depths. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  the  Governor  received 
from  the  captain  of  the  Waterford  militia  which  had 
reached  Sayville,  a  telegram  stating  the  inability  of  his 
men  to  penetrate  even  a  mile  from  the  railroad  station 
among  the  peaks  and  ridges.  "All  the  mountains  are 
wrapped  in  a  vast  mass  of  whirling  snow,"  the  telegram 
said.  In  fact,  at  that  moment,  the  captain,  who  was 
brave  from  head  to  toe,  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
lonely  little  railroad  station,  trying  to  pierce  the  dark- 
ness with  his  eyes.  Gusts  of  snow  drove  into  his  face, 
and  the  whirlwinds  enveloped  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  start  for  Briarton  now,"  he  said. 

"No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  next 
week!"  the  station-master  said,  and  he  was  right. 
When  another  week  had  passed,  the  Waterford  company 
was  still  in  Sayville,  vainly  seeking  to  pierce  a  way 
through  the  gigantic  snow-drifts.  And  out  of  Briar- 
ton,  now  as  good  as  a  thousand  miles  away,  not  a  word 


176  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

came.  Guthrie's  messenger  was  there  in  Sayville  with 
the  militia  company,  and  he,  too,  trained  mountaineer 
though  he  was,  could  not  break  a  path  to  his  home. 

After  the  second  day,  the  capital  itself  was  isolated  for 
a  while.  The  snow-drifts  heaped  up  on  the  railroad 
tracks  and  the  trains  from  either  East  or  West  were 
unable  to  come.  Then  the  telegraph  wires  broke  under 
the  gathering  weight,  and  the  great  world  slipped  away 
from  them.  The  capital,  rimmed  in  by  its  white  hills, 
was  their  own  little  world  now,  disconnected  from  all 
else;  they  were  as  ignorant  of  what  was  passing  in  the 
metropolis  of  the  State  as  they  were  of  the  domestic 
affairs  of  the  Siberians! 

To  Clarice,  it  had  all  the  charm  of  novelty  and  isola- 
tion, without  danger  or  discomfort.  They  were  as  snug 
there  in  the  little  capital  as  they  could  be  in  New  York 
or  Paris;  they  had  all  the  comforts  and  the  luxuries, 
too,  save  the  single  one  of  knowing  what  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  doing,  and,  for  the  time,  Clarice  even  enjoyed 
that  lack. 

The  great  fires  still  blazed  in  the  wide  fireplaces  of 
the  Governor's  house,  and  the  brightness  within  was 
merely  accentuated  by  the  ramparts  of  snow  without. 
Senators  and  members  of  the  House  still  went  to  the 
Capitol  at  the  regular  hours,  and  made,  or  tried  to  make, 
laws  for  a  people  shut  out  from  them  by  a  snowy  wall. 
Jimmy  Warfield  said  it  was  the  most  glorious  bit  of 
freedom  that  he  had  enjoyed  in  all  his  public  career; 
he  did  not  hear  a  single  complaint  from  his  constituents. 

But  the  trial  of  Carton  moved  on  to  its  crisis.  Mr. 
Harlow  was  ever  in  the  background,  active  but  shadowy 
and  evasive,  and  no  man  could  put  his  hand  on  him. 
Carton's  friends  sought  in  every  way  to  delay  action,  but 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  177 

their  efforts  were  unavailing,  for  the  hidden  hand  was 
pushing  on  the  majority.  The  chairman  of  the  pros- 
ecuting committee  in  the  appointed  five  days  laid  the 
charge  before  the  Senate,  which,  according  to  the  Con- 
stitution, resolved  itself  into  a  trial  court,  and  set  a  time 
for  the  beginning  of  the  evidence. 

Jimmy  Warfield  made  a  quiet  but  most  dexterous 
canvass  of  the  Senate,  and,  to  his  grief,  he  found  that  a 
majority  of  the  Democrats  were  certainly  against  Car- 
ton. What  the  Republicans  would  do  was  a  mystery 
— a  mystery  even  to  themselves,  and  all  the  deeper 
because  of  the  absence  of  their  leader,  Senator  Pike. 
They  floundered  about,  headless;  and  the  eyes  of 
both  sides  strained  vainly  toward  that  tiny 
hamlet  now  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  snow-clad 
mountains. 

But  Guthrie  was  missed  most  of  all  by  Carton  and  his 
friends.  They  had  not  appreciated  until  now  what  a 
power  he  was  on  their  side,  nor  realised  the  full  extent 
of  his  quiet  strength,  his  unfailing  tact,  and  the  calm 
optimism  which  made  others  unconsciously  rely  upon 
him.  He  was,  so  Jimmy  Warfield  now  openly  said,  the 
real  leader  of  the  Carton  defence,  and  it  went  lamely 
without  him.  But  Clarice  felt  a  sudden  resentment 
against  Guthrie  because  she  heard  so  much  about  him 
even  in  his  absence.  It  seemed  to  her  that  people 
might  find  some  other  subject;  there  were  other  attrac- 
tive young  men  in  the  world,  and  again  she  enumerated 
to  herself  Raoul's  good  qualities. 

The  trains  began  to  run  again,  the  telegraph  wires 
were  restored,  and  the  capital  resumed  its  connection 
with  the  outside  world,  fresher  and  more  piquant  now 
because  of  the  lost  days.  But  there  was  no  word  from 


178  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Briarton,  as  the  snow  yet  lay  impassable  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

An  important  arrival  in  the  capital  just  after  the 
trains  resumed  running  was  that  of  Mrs.  Ransome,  the 
imperious  mother  of  Clarice.  Mrs.  Ransome,  with  an 
inborn  pride,  always  asserted  herself,  and  she  had  good 
cause  for  her  sense  of  importance.  John  Ransome, 
her  husband,  was  a  great  merchant  and  a  millionaire 
in  the  metropolis  of  a  State  that  has  few  millionaires, 
and  consequently  he  was  a  figure  in  his  home  city.  His 
big  white  stone  house  on  the  "Avenue "  with  the  wide, 
green  lawns  about  it  was  pointed  out  to  all  visitors,  and 
so  was  Mrs.  Ransome,  if  she  happened  at  the  moment 
to  be  alighting  importantly  from  her  carriage  or  enter- 
ing it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ransome  early  arrived  at  a  satisfactory 
division  of  work:  Mr.  Ransome  made  the  money,  and 
Mrs.  Ransome  spent  it  in  the  proper  manner.  It  was 
said  that,  at  their  first  grand  reception,  when  they  began 
their  great  rise  in  the  world  and  moved  into  their  big 
house,  now  more  than  fifteen  years  ago,  some  one  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  asked  for  Mr.  Ransome,  and  he 
could  be  found  nowhere  in  the  crowded  rooms.  Dis- 
creet servants  quietly  sent  by  the  capable  Mrs.  Ran- 
some to  seek  him  at  last  discovered  him  in  the  cellar, 
enjoying  a  quiet  game  of  poker  with  three  cronies  who 
had  crossed  the  plains  with  him  in  the  early  sixties  when 
they  were  all  boys.  All  four  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
and  occasionally  they  took  a  modest  drink  of  beer  when 
there  was  champagne  to  waste  above  stairs.  He  stub- 
bornly refused,  too,  to  put  on  his  coat  again  and  reap- 
pear in  the  parlours  until  the  game  was  finished  and  the 
stakes  had  been  disposed  of  in  a  satisfactory  manner. 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  179 

Mr.  Ransome,  though  in  the  main  tractable,  had 
some  other  obstinate  and  disagreeable  qualities.     He 
would  not  cast  off  the  friends  of  his  youth  who  had  not 
prospered  as  much  as  he.     Occasionally,  he  brought 
them  to  dinner  or  to  evening  receptions  to  meet  society 
for   which,    as   Mrs.  Ransome   truly  said,  they  were 
obviously  unfit.     He  had  been  known  to  commit  the 
hideous  solecism  of  looking  bored  in  the  presence  of 
brilliant  social  stars,  and  once  or  twice,  in  unguarded 
moments,  he  had  spoken  contemptuously  of  young  men 
who  were  known  to  be  brilliant  makers  of  amusement 
in  society.     As  Mrs.  Ransome  once  said,  when  moved 
beyond  endurance  by  such  a  faux  pas  of  her  husband, 
he  had  not  risen  in  some  respects  to  his  station,    Yet 
he  was,  on  the  whole,  a  good  man  and  highly  esteemed 
in  commercial  circles  and  the  business  life  of  the  city. 
Nor  did  Mr.  Ransome  interfere  greatly  with  the  train- 
ing of  their  daughter  and  only  child.     He  made  some 
mild  objections  when  Clarice  was  sent  to  Paris  to  get  a 
real  education — he  always  had  a  healthy  indifference 
for  foreign  countries,  the  United  States  being  good 
enough  for  him— but  they  were  soon  overruled  by  his 
more   forcible    spouse.     When,    the   education    being 
finished,  Mrs.  Ransome  went  over  for  her  daughter,  and 
remained  to  spend  a  season  in  the  "world's  capital," 
Mr.  Ransome  bore  her  absence  with  Christian  resigna- 
tion.    He  exhibited  a  childish  joy  when  his  daughter 
came  home  again,  but  he  was  strangely  silent  when  his 
wife  informed  him  of  Clarice's  brilliant  engagement  to 
Count  Raoul  d'Estournelle,  whose  lineage  dated  to  the 
Crusades  and  beyond;    and  when  she  intimated  with 
pride  that  it  was  more  than  half  due  to  her  own  adroit 
management,  Mr.  Ransome's  sole  and  somewhat  dis- 


180  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

concerting  comment  was,  "  I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  learn 
to  play  poker  with  me."  But  he  was  very  tender  to  his 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Ransome,  with  some  misgivings,  had  allowed 
Clarice  to  visit  the  Governor's  wife;  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  would  be  a  period  of  eclipse,  for  the  capital  she 
knew  from  accounts  to  be  a  stuffy  little  place,  almost 
out  of  the  world,  and  she  had  proudly  told  her  friends 
in  Paris  that  she  had  never  visited  it,  although  she  had 
lived  all  her  life  only  a  hundred  miles  away.  But  the 
Governor's  wife  was  quite  a  personage,  and  undeniably, 
the  name  sounded  well.  She  could  speak  of  it,  and  so, 
yielding  to  Clarice's  urgent  entreaty,  she  let  her  go. 

Now  Mrs.  Ransome  was  becoming  dissatisfied,  and, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  she  felt  a  faint  alarm.  Certain 
reports  in  regard  to  Clarice  were  coming  from  the  capi- 
tal; she  was  showing  a  remarkable  interest  in  the  people 
by  whom  she  was  surrounded  and  in  the  events  occur- 
ring about  her.  She  rarely  spoke  of  Raoul,  it  was  said, 
and  she  had  shown  an  undue  partiality  for  the  society 
of  an  obscure  young  man,  a  mere  writer  for  the  news- 
papers. This  in  itself  had  no  very  formidable  sound, 
but  Mrs.  Ransome  was  a  careful  and  far-seeing  woman, 
and  she  took  action.  She  would  have  recalled  Clarice, 
but  the  set  term  of  her  visit  was  not  reached,  and  such  a 
course  would  have  been  too  awkward  for  a  skilful  di- 
plomatist like  Mrs.  Ransome;  so  she  came  in  person 
to  the  capital  in  order  to  survey  the  field. 

Mrs.  Ransome  did  not  advise  Clarice  of  her  coming, 
but  took  apartments  at  the  big  hotel  where  everybody 
stopped,  and  in  the  afternoon  drove  to  the  Governor's 
house.  Clarice  saw  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and  glanc- 
ing out  recognised  the  portly  form  of  her  mother  who 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  181 


had  just  alighted.  She  was  surprised  —  pleased,  yet  not 
wholly  pleased,  but  she  greeted  Mrs.  Ransome  warmly, 
and  the  introductions  were  duly  made. 

Mrs.  Ransome  put  on  her  most  important  manner. 
Clarice's  friends  were  young  women,  but  little  older  than 
Clarice  herself,  and  her  own  great  knowledge  of  the 
world  gave  her  a  conscious  superiority.  She  was  sur- 
prised, too,  to  find  the  Governor's  wife  so  very  youthful 
and  so  gentle  in  manner  —  scarcely  adequate  to  her 
place,  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Ransome,  and  her  manner 
toward  Mrs.  Hastings  became  somewhat  patronising. 
Clarice  felt  a  growing  irritation  as  the  call  proceeded,  an 
annoyance  not  decreased  when  her  mother  brought 
Raoul  into  the  talk  in  a  rather  obtrusive  manner. 

Mrs.  Ransome  not  only  introduced  the  subject  of 
Raoul,  but  also  dwelt  upon  it.  The  young  nobleman 
was  such  a  model,  all  the  gifts  were  his!  He  was  so 
graceful,  so  gallant,  and  of  such  an  old  family!  The 
d'Estournelles  were  in  the  Crusades,  and  they  were 
related  to  half  the  great  people  of  Europe.  And  Raoul 
was  coming  over  in  May!  They  should  see  him  then. 
Oh,  such  a  presence  and  such  manners! 

Clarice  listened  with  reddening  cheeks,  but  she  did 
not  have  anything  to  say.  She  was  glad  when  her 
mother  declined  the  invitation  to  stay  at  the  Governor's 
house  during  her  visit  to  the  capital. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Ransome;  "I  could  not  break 
in  upon  this  circle  of  young  people!  Like  likes 
like,  you  know,  and  I  am  here  for  only  two  or  three 
days." 

Clarice  drove  back  with  her  mother  to  the  hotel. 
Mrs.  Ransome  settled  herself  comfortably  on  the  car- 
riage cushion,  and  said  to  her  daughter, 


182  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Nice  people,  my  dear,  but  provincial — very  pro- 
vincial!" 

Clarice  flushed  indignantly. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "they  are  not  provincial,  I  like 
them  very  much,  and — and " 

She  hesitated. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  wish  you  would  not  try  to  patronise  them,  mother. 
They  saw  it  as  I  did — and  mother,  they  cannot  be 
patronised ! " 

Clarice  was  flushed  and  embarrassed,  but  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  spoken.  Mrs.  Ransome  fixed  her 
daughter  with  a  cold  eye. 

"Clarice,"  she  said,  "you  have  inherited  some  of 
your  father's  traits.  John  Ransome  is  a  good  man- 
none  knows  it  better  than  I,  his  wife,  and  none  is  readier 
to  proclaim  it;  but  he  has  never  been  fully  conscious  of 
his  large  position  in  the  world.  I  have  tried  my  best  to 
awaken  in  him  this  sense  of  responsibility,  but  I  have 
failed.  I  thought  that  I  had  educated  you  better,  and  I 
was  proud  of  my  work,  but  I  begin  to  fear  that  I  have 
failed  in  part." 

Clarice  rarely  said  anything  when  her  mother  adopted 
her  majestic  manner,  but  she  hid  a  smile.  Her  father 
was  very  dear  to  her,  and,  if  she  had  inherited  any  of  his 
traits,  it  was  cause  for  gladness  and  pride.  Mrs.  Ran- 
some resented  the  silence  of  her  daughter,  and  came  to 
the  point  rather  abruptly. 

"Clarice,"  she  said,  "I  have  heard  of  a  certain  young 

man  named  Guthrie,  a  newspaper  writer,  I  believe, 

who,  I  am  told,  is  a  somewhat  conspicuous  figure  in  the 

set  in  which  you  move  here.     Where  is  he  now?" 

The  colour  deepened  in  Clarice's  cheeks,  and  then 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  183 

she  was  angry,  but,  in  a  moment,  the  feeling  was  gone. 
A  slight  sense  of  amusement  took  its  place.  She  had 
plenty  of  courage. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "Mr.  Guthrie  is  a  favourite 
among  the  people  whom  I  know  here,  but  nothing  has 
been  heard  of  him  for  a  week." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?  Has  the  man  ab- 
sconded ?  " 

"Oh,  no!    He  is  merely  lost." 

"Lost?" 

"Yes,  lost  under  the  snow." 

"Please  explain  your  meaning,"  said  Mrs.  Ransome 
with  some  haughtiness. 

"Just  before  the  great  snow,  mother,  he  went  up  into 
the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains  with  Mr.  Pike,  a  State 
senator,  to  help  fight  in  a  feud." 

"To  help  fight  in  a  feud?  What  a  shocking  thing! 
Is  the  man  a  desperado?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all!  Mr.  Guthrie  merely  went 
along  to  see  and  to  report  the  news.  Mr.  Pike 
is  to  do  the  fighting.  But  the  snow  came,  and 
they  cannot  get  out  of  the  mountains  or  send  any 
word.  So  we  do  not  know  what  has  happened, 
and  they  tell  me  it  may  be  another  week  before  we 
can  hear." 

Mrs.  Ransome  felt  relief.  Providence  had  kindly 
taken  this  objectionable  Guthrie  out  of  the  way  for  a 
while  at  least,  but  she  did  not  relax  her  sternness. 

"Clarice,"  she  said,  "I  am  sorry  that  I  ever  let  you 
come  here.  Ycu  seem  to  have  become  acquainted  with 
such  queer  people.  Do  you  know  this  creature,  this 
savage — the  Senator  who  has  gone  up  in  the  mountains 
to  fight?" 


184  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Oh,  yes,  mother,  I  know  Mr.  Pike  well,  and  he  is 
such  a  noble  man!  You  could  not  help  liking  him. 
So  earnest,  so  honest,  and  so  open." 

Mrs.  Ransome  gazed  at  her  daughter  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"Clarice,"  she  said,  "I  am  amazed  at  you!  Do  you 
tell  me  that  you  like  a  rude,  wild  mountaineer,  that  you 
have  been  meeting  him  in  society  here  ?  What  a  singu- 
lar condition  of  affairs!" 

"  But,  mother,  it  is  your  State  as  well  as  mine — moun- 
taineers and  all." 

Mrs.  Ransome  did  not  reply  to  this  shaft,  as  they  had 
conveniently  reached  the  hotel,  but  she  took  her  daugh- 
ter with  her  to  her  rooms,  and  gave  her  much  good 
advice,  to  which  Clarice  listened  dutifully. 

Mrs.  Ransome  speedily  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Pelhams,  who  were  at  the  same  hotel,  and  she  liked  the 
General  better  than  anybody  else  whom  she  met  in  the 
capital.  He  had  a  fine,  large  manner  that  impressed 
her,  and  in  a  life,  the  most  of  which  had  been  spent  in 
this  State  of  her  birth,  she  could  not  help  having  heard 
of  the  Pelhams.  Moreover,  they  had  many  feelings  in 
common  concerning  the  state  of  certain  affairs  in  the 
little  city,  and  this  was  another  tie  to  bind  them.  Of 
Mrs.  Pelham  herself  she  took  little  notice,  considering 
her  an  insignificant  little  thing  not  worthy  of  much 
attention. 

Mrs.  Ransome  had  the  habit  of  writing  letters  to  her 
husband  about  the  current  affairs  in  which  she  was  inter- 
ested. She  knew  that  Mr.  Ransome  often  failed  to 
appreciate  these  vital  issues,  and  she  mourned  the  fact, 
but  habit  was  strong,  and  she  must  have  some  one  to 
whom  to  pour  out  her  soul.  On  the  second  day  after 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  185 

her  arrival  in  the  capital,  she  wrote  to  him,  and  again  on 
the  day  following. 

Mr.  Ransome,  as  she  had  truly  foreseen,  was  not 
deeply  impressed  by  her  news,  but  his  attention  was 
fixed  when  he  came  to  the  name  of  his  daughter  Clarice. 
Mrs.  Ransome  seemed  to  be  having  trouble  with 
Clarice;  the  girl,  for  some  singular  reason,  had  developed 
a  streak  of  quiet  stubbornness.  Apparently,  she  had 
been  influenced  by  surroundings  of  which  her  mother 
did  not  approve;  there  were  many  queer  people  at  the 
capital — government  at  best  was  a  hodgepodge  any- 
where— and,  the  place  itself  being  so  small,  one  could 
not  well  avoid  them.  Clarice,  she  feared,  was  develop- 
ing tastes  that  were  not  progressive.  She  would  bring 
her  daughter  away  at  once,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
abrupt,  nor  did  she  care  to  increase  the  spirit  of  stub- 
bornness that  Clarice  was  developing  in  the  most  unex- 
pected and  unpleasant  manner. 

John  Ransome  smiled  when  he  came  to  the  end  of 
this  letter,  and  then  he  read  it  all  over  again.  He  was 
pleased — why,  he  was  hardly  able  to  tell  himself.  He 
loved  his  wife,  and  he  loved  his  daughter,  and,  ap- 
parently, there  was  nothing  in  a  prospective  conflict 
between  the  two  to  rejoice  the  heart  of  a  husband  and 
father;  but  such  were  his  feelings  nevertheless.  He 
wrote  to  his  wife  a  rather  longer  letter  than  usual, 
suggesting  that  Clarice  be  allowed  to  stay  the  set  time 
of  her  visit. 

Events  now  began  to  move  more  rapidly  at  the  cap- 
ital. It  was  noticed  that  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow  never 
left  the  place.  Formerly,  he  would  disappear  for  brief 
seasons,  but  now  he  was  constant  in  his  attendance. 
Coincidently,  the  case  against  Carton  made  swift  prog- 


186  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

ress;  the  Senate  was  already  taking  evidence,  and  Mr. 
Pursley  was  a  leading  prosecutor;  he  disclaimed  all  per- 
sonal hostility;  he  professed  rather  to  like  Carton,  and 
his  attitude  was  that  of  a  man,  astonished  and  grieved 
by  a  friend's  dereliction— a  manner  very  potent  with 
the  weaker  members  of  the  Legislature,  and  also  with 
that  larger  body  of  the  public  which  is  ready  to  believe 
any  evil  of  those  in  office. 

Templeton,  too,  suddenly  began  to  appear  as  an 
enemy  of  Carton  and  a  defender  of  the  public  virtue. 
His  defalcation  having  been  paid  back  to  the  Govern- 
ment by  others,  nothing  more  was  heard  about  it,  and  he 
bloomed  anew — or  rather,  he  had  never  ceased  to  bloom. 
He  could  tell  things,  if  he  would,  it  was  said,  and  there 
was  talk  of  his  taking  the  witness  stand,  but,  so  far,  he 
had  not  been  called  by  the  Senate. 

Carton  grew  colder  and  haughtier  than  ever.  All 
questions  put  by  the  Senate  he  answered  readily,  but  in 
the  most  indifferent  manner;  his  attitude  seemed  to 
imply  that  the  opinion  of  the  Senate  was  not  worth  any- 
thing, and  Jimmy  Warfield,  who  knew  human  nature, 
believed  in  his  heart  that  two  or  three  senators  would 
vote  against  him  solely  on  that  account. 

Warfield  began  now  to  lament  the  absence  of  Senator 
Pike.  The  snow  was  a  great  misfortune.  He  did  not 
know  how  Mr.  Pike  would  have  voted;  he  might  be 
against  Carton,  but  it  was  quite  certain  that  without  him 
Carton  was  lost.  The  headless  Republican  body  in  the 
Senate  showed  signs  of  drifting  with  the  majority. 

The  only  rock  that  the  prosecution  struck  was  the 
unexpected  action  of  Senator  Cobb,  who,  it  was  well 
known,  was  much  opposed  to  Carton.  He  arose  in  the 
Senate  one  cold  morning,  and  announced  that  he  was 


THE  GREAT  SNOW  187 

opposed  to  such  rapid  action.  A  most  influential  mem- 
ber of  the  Senate  was  not  present,  he  said,  and  could 
not  attend  for  some  days.  A  verdict  in  his  absence 
would  be  snap  judgment.  The  people  should  always 
be  for  fair  play;  if  the  presence  of  Senator  Pike  meant 
help  for  an  accused  man,  then  the  accused  man  should 
have  it.  As  for  himself,  he  would  fight  any  movement 
to  bring  the  matter  to  a  vote  until  the  missing  senator 
had  returned. 

There  was  a  sudden  burst  of  applause  from  the  gal- 
lery when  Senator  Cobb  sat  down,  but  the  prosecution, 
nevertheless,  pushed  the  matter  with  the  utmost  vigour. 
But  Senator  Cobb  was  true  to  his  word,  and,  with  a  par- 
liamentary skill  and  persistence  that  aroused  the  admira- 
tion of  everybody,  he  began  to  fight  for  delay.  In  the 
Senate  was  the  curious  spectacle  of  an  influential  mem- 
ber who  opposed  Carton  fighting  for  him — that  is,  to 
give  him  more  time. 

Thus  affairs  stood  at  the  capital,  and  the  snow  still 
lay  in  the  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR 

DEEP  in  the  mountains,  the  time  was  passing  all  too 
slowly  for  Guthrie  and  the  Reverend  Zedekiah  Pike. 
Guthrie  fretted,  and  looked  up  at  the  white  peaks  around 
him,  but  he  had  little  else  to  do.  He  was  shut  out  from 
the  world  as  completely  as  if  he  were  on  an  island  in  the 
South  Seas.  Once  there  were  signs  of  a  thaw,  and  a  cold 
rain  fell,  but  in  a  few  hours  it  turned  colder  again  than 
ever,  and  the  rain  froze  on  the  surface  of  the  snow, 
making  a  glistening  sheet  of  ice.  It  was  now  im- 
possible to  travel  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  village,  and  even  the  wisest  of  the  mountain 
prophets  could  not  predict  a  change.  The  goose- 
bone  had  foretold  a  hard  winter,  and  they  had  no  right 
to  expect  anything  else. 

The  talk  of  lynching  was  not  revived  for  the  present, 
but  Guthrie  knew  that  it  would  come  up  again  when  the 
snow  melted;  so  he  was  glad  that  he  had  sent  his  mes- 
sage to  the  Governor.  But  the  public  feeling  against 
Mr.  Pike  afflicted  him.  The  Senator,  by  his  unaccount- 
able action  in  sparing  Dilger  when  he  was  at  his  mercy, 
had  forfeited  the  esteem  of  his  own  party.  People 
could  not  understand  him;  his  action  violated  all  tradi- 
tion and  right  feeling;  he  was  accused  of  a  want  of 
respect  for  the  memory  of  his  murdered  brother;  it  was 
popularly  said  that  he  was  the  first  Pike  who  had  ever 

188 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR        189 

flinched.  His  own  near  relatives  became  rather  shy  of 
him,  and  he  was  forced  to  rely  more  and  more  upon  the 
companionship  of  Guthrie,  who  felt  for  him  the  deepest 
and  sincerest  sympathy,  when  he  saw  all  that  the  Senator 
had  forfeited  for  the  sake  of  the  new  and  higher  feelings 
learned  from  the  world  outside. 

But  upon  Guthrie  himself,  although  he  was  known  to 
be  the  intimate  friend  of  Senator  Pike,  none  of  this  hos- 
tility was  visited.  He  was  a  stranger,  a  man  not  med- 
dling in  the  feud,  who  had  come  there  to  stay  a  while 
among  them,  forced  now  by  stress  of  circumstances  to 
remain  longer  than  he  intended,  and  the  primitive  and 
great  virtue  of  hospitality  was  exercised  to  the  full  in  his 
case.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  anxieties  about  affairs 
at  the  capital,  he  could  have  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  life 
in  this  walled-in  dell  in  the  mountains,  and,  despite  these 
cares,  it  was  not  without  many  attractions.  Beauty  of 
the  grand  and  picturesque  sort  was  there  in  abundance. 
He  saw  it  all  around  him  in  the  ridges  and  the  peaks 
sheathed  in  their  armour  of  glittering  ice  that  flashed  in 
rays  of  yellow  and  silver  under  the  wintry,  but  none  the 
less  brilliant  sun.  The  trees  were  clad  to  the  last,  least 
twig  in  the  same  white  coats  of  mail,  and,  silhouetted 
against  the  sky,  they  looked  like  gigantic  pieces  of 
carving  in  ice.  Just  above  the  village,  where  the 
little  river  dashed  over  a  fall,  the  cataract  was 
frozen,  and  now  and  then  a  brilliant  rainbow  flashed 
its  colours  there. 

The  village  itself  was  snug  and  warm.  Nearly  all 
the  houses  were  built  of  logs,  and  the  surrounding  forest 
furnished  an  abundant  supply  of  fuel.  In  every  in- 
habited building,  a  great  fire  blazed  and  crackled,  and 
there  was  an  abundance  of  food,  too— most  of  it  coarse 


190  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

and  rough,  but  winter  work  and  a  winter  air  made  its 
taste  good  enough. 

It  was  now  that  Guthrie  began  to  show  his  wonderful 
quality  of  adaptation,  a  trait  in  his  nature  that  made  him 
acceptable  everywhere,  and  liked  by  people  of  widely 
varying  types.  He  had  such  a  keen  zest  in  life,  such  a 
readiness  to  see  that  people  are  chiefly  the  creatures  of 
their  circumstances,  and  such  a  desire  to  see  the  good  in 
them,  that  he  always  approached  strangers  with  a 
friendly  prepossession — a  feeling  that  naturally  bred 
reciprocity.  He  had  not  been  in  Briarton  a  week  before 
he  knew  every  one  of  its  inhabitants,  and,  without 
effort  on  his  part  to  acquire  favour,  he  was  the  most 
popular  man  there.  He  assumed  no  airs  of  superiority, 
he  helped  the  people  to  dig  their  roads  through  the  snow, 
now  and  then  he  cut  wood  in  order  to  keep  his  muscles 
in  trim,  he  said,  and,  the  night  when  the  Widow  Connor's 
house  caught  fire,  he  was  first  on  the  roof  with  a  bucket 
of  water  to  put  out  the  flames.  When  the  fire  was  out 
and  he  slipped  on  the  icy  boards,  plunging  head  first 
into  a  five-foot  snow-drift,  he  joined  with  entire  hearti- 
ness in  the  laugh  against  him.  And  then  when  the 
Widow  Connor,  out  of  sheer  gratitude,  kissed  him  on 
the  cheek,  Guthrie  returned  the  salute  in  such  a  gallant 
manner  that  he  won  the  applause  of  the  entire  popula- 
tion gathered  there  in  an  admiring  circle. 

He  put  the  capstone  to  this  edifice  of  popular  esteem 
when  he  beat  Eli  Pike,  a  second  cousin  of  the  Senator, 
at  rifle-shooting.  Eli  was  the  champion  of  the  county, 
and  when  Guthrie,  by  a  most  singular  piece  of  luck, 
bored  a  hole  right  through  the  centre  of  the  target,  a 
silver  coin  posted  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  then  put 
the  rifle  aside  with  an  air  that  seemed  to  say,  "I  can  do 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR        191 

a  little  thing  like  that  fifty  times  a  day,"  there  was  noth- 
ing in  the  village  that  he  could  not  have.  People  said, 
"Why,  he  don't  put  on  no  airs  at  all;  he's  jest  as  easy 
as  an  old  shoe!" 

Guthrie  was  conscious  of  his  growing  power  and  he 
used  it  without  cessation  for  his  friend  the  Senator.  He 
was  speaking  continually — but  only  in  an  indirect  man- 
ner— of  the  Senator's  great  influence,  of  the  leadership 
conceded  to  him  by  the  Republican  party — not  because 
he  sought  it,  but  because  of  his  high  character  and 
abilities;  he  emphasised  the  glory  that  he  was  shedding 
upon  the  mountains  in  general,  upon  his  county  in  par- 
ticular, and  upon  Briarton  most  of  all.  Invariably,  in 
his  talk  with  the  mountaineers,  he  quoted  the  Senator's 
standard  of  conduct  as  a  rule  of  life,  and  he  measured 
all  things  by  it.  Such  and  such  a  thing  at  the  capital 
was  right,  he  often  said,  because  Senator  Pike  ap- 
proved it;  he  gave  no  other  reason — that  Senator  Pike 
said  so  was  sufficient. 

He  was  soon  happy  to  see  that  his  method  was 
producing  good  results.  The  people,  without  knowing 
why,  began  to  look  upon  Senator  Pike's  conduct  with 
more  leniency.  Guthrie's  office,  too,  added  weight  to 
his  words.  It  was  soon  known  that  he  was  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  State's  greatest  newspaper,  who  had 
come  into  the  mountains  to  write  about  them.  It  was 
evident  that  he  liked  the  people,  and  therefore  fell  into 
their  ways  with  the  greatest  ease.  With  them,  print  had 
a  sanctity  unshaken  byevery-day  use,and,in  their  eyes, 
the  man  who  wrote  things  appearing  in  type  was  great 
in  his  day.  They  weighed  in  their  minds  whether  he 
was  not  as  great  as  a  State  senator,  or  at  least  as  great 
as  a  member  of  the  House.  Certainly,  the  occupation 


192  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

had  about  it  an  air  of  mystery  and  romance  lacking  even 
in  the  office-holder. 

Guthrie  was  able  to  repay  the  hospitality  of  his  host  in 
yet  another  way.  The  Senator,  feeling  himself  an  out- 
cast, grew  heavy  and  melancholy,  and  felt,  too,  that  he 
was  now  neglecting  his  duty  in  being  absent  from  the 
capital  at  so  critical  a  time.  He  did  not  excuse 
himself  because  it  was  manifestly  the  hand  of  God 
that  kept  him  away.  Guthrie  became  indispensable 
to  the  stricken  man.  With  his  own  hands,  he  piled  the 
logs  upon  the  fire,  and  watched  the  blaze  roar  up  the 
chimney.  He  never  abated  one  whit  from  his  cheer- 
ful tone.  He  talked  of  the  ever-recurring  topics  of 
public  life,  not  only  of  office-holding  and  law-making, 
but  of  the  other  affairs  of  the  larger  world — of  science 
and  society,  of  life  and  literature.  He  had  noticed 
that  the  Senator  was  often  in  the  fine  library  in  the 
Capitol  building,  and  now  he  found  that  the  moun- 
taineer was  almost  wholly  self-taught.  His  taste  was 
chiefly  for  history  and  biography.  He  had  read  exten- 
sively about  ancient  kingdoms  and  republics — nearly 
always  pronouncing  the  proper  names  wrong,  because 
no  one  had  ever  told  him  better — and  Guthrie  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  his  admiration  was  for  the  Greek 
democracy  rather  than  for  the  all-conquering  Roman 
State.  He  had  thought  that  Rome  would  appeal  most 
to  a  mountaineer  in  whose  country  might  counted  for 
so  much.  But  Mr.  Pike  liked  the  humanity  and  mercy 
of  the  Greek  character,  and  Guthrie  thought  he  saw 
in  it  the  key  to  his  rebellion  against  a  prevalent  moun- 
tain custom. 

Guthrie  went  once  to  see  Dilger  in  the  jail.     The 
feud  leader  was  completely  recovered  from  his  wound 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR        193 

— he  had  merely  been  stunned  by  the  glancing  impact 
of  a  bullet  against  his  thick  skull,  followed  by  a  few 
hours'  paralysis  of  the  muscles — and  he  found  him 
insolent,  defiant,  and  wholly  unrepentant.  Yes,  he 
had  killed  the  younger  Pike,  and  he  was  glad  of  it; 
he  would  serve  the  older  brother  the  same  way  if  he 
had  the  chance,  and  he  expected  to  have  it  some  day; 
did  they  think  they  would  hang  him?  They  would 
learn  better  before  long.  He  sneered  at  the  Senator. 
He  did  not  believe  that  Mr.  Pike  had  spared  him 
through  any  moral  scruples;  such  a  thought  had  never 
entered  his  head,  nor  could  it  have  been  driven  there 
with  a  hammer  and  a  chisel;  he  did  not  know  what 
moral  scruples  were,  or  what  the  phrase  meant.  No, 
the  Senator  was  simply  a  coward;  the  blood  in  his 
veins  was  white;  when  it  came  to  shooting  a  man,  he 
had  lost  his  nerve,  he  was  a  woman  in  man's  clothes. 
Dilger  laughed  in  contempt. 

On  the  tenth  night  after  Guthrie's  arrival,  Dilger 
broke  jail,  and  fled  along  one  of  the  newly  opened  paths 
in  the  snow  up  the  mountain  side.  It  was  Senator 
Pike  who  responded  first  to  the  alarm,  and  led  the  pur- 
suit through  the  snow  and  the  forest.  In  some  way,  a 
revolver  had  been  smuggled  to  Dilger,  and,  when  the 
Senator,  separated  from  the  rest  of  his  party,  overtook 
him,  a  duel  ensued  between  this  servant  of  the  law  and 
the  desperado,  fighting  for  his  life.  Mr.  Pike  escaped 
without  a  wound,  but  Dilger  fell  with  a  bullet  through 
his  shoulder.  A  second  time,  the  Senator  spared  the 
life  of  his  deadliest  enemy,  and  brought  him  bleeding 
into  Briarton,  amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who  could 
not  now  refuse  admiration.  Certainly,  no  one  could 
impugn  the  courage  of  the  Senator,  for  single-handed 


194  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

he  had  fought  his  enemy  as  before,  wounded  him,  and 
brought  him  in  a  prisoner.  Nor  could  they  deny  him 
consistency,  for,  in  the  face  of  ostracism  and  all  that  is 
precious  to  a  man,  he  had  stood  by  his  principles. 
Might  there  not  be  something  in  such  beliefs  if  one  was 
willing  to  pay  so  great  a  price  to  sustain  them  ? 

Guthrie  was  in  the  crowd  that  stood  by  when  the 
Senator  brought  in  Dilger.  It  was  three  o'clock  of  a 
very  cold  morning,  and  the  little  street  was  lighted  up 
by  torches.  Dilger,  pale  and  weak,  had  been  given  to 
the  constable,  and  near  him  stood  the  Senator,  silent 
and  stern.  Back  of  all  were  the  snow-clad  mountains 
gleaming  through  the  darkness.  The  scene  stirred 
Guthrie  to  the  depths,  and,  springing  upon  a  stump, 
he  cried: 

"  Gentlemen,  our  Bible  says  that  he  who  ruleth  him- 
self is  greater  than  he  who  taketh  a  city;  therefore,  I 
call  for  a  cheer  for  the  greatest  man  in  the  mountains, 
the  bravest  man  in  the  mountains,  for  a  man  who  has 
done  what  few  of  us  would  dare  to  do,  a  man  who 
single-handed  has  taken  a  desperado  fighting  for  his 
life,  a  man  who  stands  among  us  to-night,  blood  kin  to 
nearly  all  of  you — the  Honourable  Zedekiah  Pike." 

His  sonorous  periods,  his  cumulative  sentences, 
pleased  the  mountaineers,  and  touched  a  chord  already 
attuned  to  a  response.  They,  too,  unconsciously  had 
begun  to  feel  the  strain  of  the  difference  between  them 
and  their  leader,  and  at  the  sudden  sight  of  him,  stand- 
ing there  a  hero — a  hero  acknowledged  and  admired  by 
this  representative  of  an  outside  world,  all  their  old 
esteem  and  liking  came  back  with  a  rush,  and  they 
burst  into  a  spontaneous  cheer. 

Some  of  them  crowded  forward  to  shake  the  hand  of 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR         195 

Mr.  Pike  and  to  tell  how  much  they  admired  him. 
Again  the  shifting  picture  etched  itself  deeply  on  Guth- 
rie's  mind:  the  tall,  black-haired  Senator,  his  features 
still  stem  and  unrelaxed;  the  crowd  about  him;  the 
fallen  captive  in  the  background;  the  smoking  torches, 
and  the  great  rim  of  snowy  mountains. 

Gradually  the  heart  of  the  Senator  melted  before 
the  surrender  of  his  people,  and  Guthrie  saw  a  mist 
appear  in  his  eyes.  There  was  a  little  tightness  at  his 
own  heart,  and  he  felt  the  glow  of  a  good  deed  well 
done. 

Dilger  was  again  confined  in  the  jail,  and  his  guard 
was  increased  until  the  law  should  take  its  course;  and 
then  Guthrie  and  the  Senator  walked  slowly  home, 
neither  speaking.  Guthrie  saw  that  his  companion 
was  deeply  moved,  and  he  knew  that  a  great  burden 
had  been  lifted  from  his  back.  As  for  himself,  he  was 
thinking  of  Clarice  Ransome.  What  would  she,  with 
her  foreign  education,  say  of  such  a  scene  as  this? 
Would  it  not  appear  to  her  wild  and  singular — a  piece 
out  of  another  world  than  hers? 

The  good  relations  established  in  a  burst  of  emotion 
under  the  torchlight  between  Senator  Pike  and  Briar- 
ton  retained  their  warmth  in  the  cold  light  of  the  days 
that  followed.  The  people  flowed  through  the  Sena- 
tor's house  again,  paying  friendly  calls,  asking  his  ad- 
vice about  public  and  private  matters,  and  putting  him 
back  in  his  old  place — the  place  in  which  he  belonged 
— as  leading  man  of  the  village,  made  such  by  sheer 
merit. 

The  Senator  never  spoke  of  the  matter  to  Guthrie, 
whom  he  now  treated  almost  as  a  son — the  companion 
and  loyal  friend  of  his  adversity;  but  he  talked  freely 


196  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

of  affairs  at  the  capital,  and  Guthrie,  taking  his  cue, 
uttered  many  a  good  word  for  Carton,  never  abruptly, 
nor  badly,  but  always  indirectly  and  in  its  proper  con- 
nection. 

Mr.  Pike  was  much  troubled,  and  at  last  told  his 
views  upon  this  important  question. 

"Personally,  I  like  Mr.  Carton,"  but  he  has  serious 
faults,  he  said.  "He  seems  to  me  to  be  somewhat 
arrogant,  to  consult  too  little  the  feelings  of  the  other 
members  of  the  House  —  in  short,  to  lack  tact  (and 
that  is  a  serious  fault  in  the  leader  of  any  legislative 
body),  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  he  could  be 
guilty  of  corruption." 

"Then  you  would  vote  for  him  in  his  trial  before  the 
Senate?"  asked  Guthrie,  scarcely  able  to  conceal  his 
eagerness. 

"Unless  more  evidence  is  produced  than  has  been 
made  known  to  me,  I  should  do  so,"  replied  the  Senator. 
Guthrie  was  wise  enough  not  to  push  the  question 
further,  and  now  he  was  more  eager  than  ever  to  escape 
from  the  mountains.  He  knew  that  the  trial  of  Carton 
must  be  approaching  its  climax,  and  he  knew,  too, 
that  the  balance  of  forces  present  at  the  capital  was 
against  him.  He  looked  up  at  the  overhanging  moun- 
tains of  white.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  thaw.  A 
road  had  been  broken  a  distance  of  three  or  four  miles, 
but  it  was  folly  to  attempt  the  entire  journey  to  Say- 
ville;  one  must  turn  back  or  perish  in  the  mountains. 
Although  Guthrie  did  not  know  it,  the  Waterford 
militia  company  was  still  at  Sayville,  waiting  like  him- 
self for  the  first  sign  of  a  thaw,  and  eager  to  get 
through  to  Briarton. 

One  afternoon,  a  wind  blowing  out  of  the  north 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR        197 

arose,  but  in  an  hour  it  veered  around  to  the  south- 
west, and  its  breath  was  warm.  If  it  lasted,  the  snow 
would  begin  to  melt  soon,  and  the  weather  prophet  of 
the  village  said  that  it  would  last.  Evidently  he  under- 
stood his  business,  because,  when  the  twilight  came, 
the  southwest  wind  was  still  blowing,  and  the  frozen 
surface  of  the  snow  was  softening.  After  dark,  the 
water  began  to  drip  from  the  roofs. 

Guthrie  sat  that  evening  with  Mr.  Pike,  and  they 
still  talked  of  the  capital  and  the  affairs  of  the  State, 
both  increasingly  eager  for  the  journey,  now  that  the 
snow  was  melting  and  the  mountains  were  about  to  be 
unlocked.  The  Senator  showed  a  quiet  but  serene 
satisfaction;  he  seemed  to  Guthrie  to  have  grown  in 
mental  breadth  and  stature  in  the  last  few  days;  his 
successful  issue  from  his  great  trial  had  solidified  and 
strengthened  him,  and  Guthrie  foresaw  in  him  a  Repub- 
lican leader  of  weight  and  character.  A  partisan  Dem- 
ocrat himself  by  birth,  training,  association,  and  con- 
viction, he  knew  that  the  State  needed  a  stronger 
and  healthier  opposition  than  the  Republicans  had 
ever  been  able  to  furnish,  and  he  expected  Mr.  Pike  to 
gather  together  the  scattered  forces  and  to  make  them 
cohesive  and  energetic. 

The  Senator  spoke  by  and  by  of  Templeton  and  his 
defalcation,  of  which  he  had  known.  He  held  that 
Templeton  should  not  have  been  excused  because  his 
friends  paid  back  the  money;  he  should  have  been 
exposed,  nor  was  that  enough:  he  should  have  been 
sent  to  prison — it  was  the  plain  law. 

"I  heard  that  you  haJ  written  an  account  of  it  for 
the  Times,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "and  that  you  were 
induced  by  the  Bishop  to  withdraw  it" 


198  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Guthrie  said  nothing;  he  was  willing  to  let  the  affair 
stand  at  that,  and  Mr.  Pike  spoke  on,  not  noticing 
Guthrie's  failure  to  answer. 

"It  did  no  good  to  save  Templeton,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause he  was  saved  only  for  the  moment.  He  will 
commit  another  and  greater  offence,  and  he  is  sure  to 
come  to  a  bad  end  in  time.  Even  now  he  is  pretend- 
ing to  be  a  lobbyist,  and  he  has  all  sorts  of  wild  and 
grandiloquent  schemes.  I  heard  him  boasting  once, 
when  he  had  drunk  too  much,  that  he  had  only 
to  say  the  word,  and  he  could  go  to  New  York  any  day 
he  chose,  and  work  for  a  firm  of  brokers  at  ten  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  Ten  thousand  dollars  is  a  great  deal 
of  money.  Nobody  in  the  mountains  ever  made  that 
much,  year  after  year." 

Guthrie  had  been  listening  with  interest,  but  now  he 
became  suddenly  eager  and  intent.  He  had  the  gift 
of  intuition,  or  rather,  a  logical  way  of  connecting 
seemingly  irrelevant  facts. 

"Did  Templeton  mention  the  name  of  the  broker- 
age firm  that  was  willing  to  pay  him  so  good  a  salary  ?" 
he  asked. 

The  Senator  meditated  a  moment. 
"He  spoke  the  name,"  he  replied,  "but  I  had  to 
think  a  little  before  I  could  recall  it.     It  was  Purvis 
&   Eaton.     I   remember  his   words— they   were: 
can  get  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  from  a  firm  of 
brokers  in  New  York.     Purvis   &  Eaton  will  be  glad 
to  pay  me  that  much  any  day  I  say  I'm  willing  to  take 
the  job/    Yes,  those  were  his  words.    Do  you  think 
that  he  was  lying,  Mr.  Guthrie?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Guthrie,  and  in  a  few 
moments  he  spoke  of  something  else.     But  his  thoughts 


AND  THE  SENATOR        I99 

°n  *••*•          tumultu. 


a  a 
man  in  .  ^  *  3ala,y  to  an  o 

out  experience  in   A 


increasing  driprin'  ofh        T^  "'*  Pleaaure  to 
and  he  heari  the  it"  mkeltm«sno»  fa»  the 
southwest  wind  on^^^'h  of  the  warn, 

had  begun,  and,  in  a  few  d   «  T       ^l8""*  thaw 
mountains   would   be  oL    but  ^-         "gh 
turned  his  face  toward  ti  Tiiwi         •      "e  no  lo 
that,  when  he  re"sa^  t   £***    He  l 
him  eastward  and  n^weTw          '  ^  Sh°U'd 


from 

,  the  next 


«-'--- 

which  they  c^uld  not  if  CU"°US  fee"ng  °f  relief-  for 
have  accounted  if  asked,  per- 


200  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

vaded  them.  No  one  knew  how  the  Senator  would 
vote,  or  how  he  would  influence  his  fellow  Republicans, 
and  Guthrie  had  no  vote  at  all. 

Senator  Cobb,  backed  up  and  aided  in  every  way 
by  Jimmy  Warfield,  who,  though  a  member  of  the  House, 
was  not  without  influence  in  the  Senate,  had  just  fought 
off  a  vote,  despite  the  pressure  of  Pursley,  and  Harlow, 
and  all  the  others.  Templeton,  too,  was  doing  a  little 
quiet  lobbying,  and  it  was  said  that  he  would  shortly 
leave  the  little  city  for  a  larger  field.  Finally,  word 
came  that  the  road  from  Briarton  was  open  to  the  ven- 
turesome, and  arrivals  from  there  might  be  expected 
in  the  capital  on  the  morrow. 

Clarice  was  sitting  with  her  mother,  Mrs.  Hastings, 
and  Mary  Pelham  when  this  news  was  told  and  Mrs. 
Ransome's  look  was  ironical. 

"I  suppose  that  quite  a  fuss  will  be  made  over  this 
young  Guthrie  when  he  returns,"  she  said.  "Every- 
body talks  of  him  as  if  he  were  something  quite  out  of 
the  common!" 

"We  think  that  he  is  above  the  average,"  said  Lucy 
Hastings  with  quiet  dignity,  "and  all  of  us  like  him  be- 
cause he  is  so  unselfish  and  so  devoted  to  his  friends. 
Paul  said  last  night  that  no  one  could  be  missed  from 
the  capital  more  than  he  had  been,  and  I  think  so,  too." 

Mrs.  Ransome  flushed  slightly,  and  made  no  reply. 
She  had  not  found  it  to  her  advantage  to  quarrel  with 
the  Governor's  wife  and  her  friends,  and,  as  all  her 
efforts  at  patronising  were  skilfully  turned  aside,  she 
was  forced  for  the  time  to  choose  some  other  course. 
She  glanced  at  Clarice,  who  had  gone  to  the  window, 
and  was  looking  out  at  the  melting  snow  and  torrents  of 
water  that  ran  down  the  gutters. 


GUTHRIE  AND  THE  SENATOR        201 

Clarice  was  unhappy.  She  resented  her  mother's 
implication  that  she  was  neglecting  Raoul — or  rather 
the  memory  of  Raoul,  as  Raoul  himself  was  five  thou- 
sand miles  away — but  the  insinuation  was  true,  and  she 
knew  it.  However,  it  would  be  only  for  a  little  while, 
she  told  herself;  these  were  her  people,  and  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  be  interested  in  them ;  this  was 
her  country,  and  Europe  was  not,  although  it  was  to  be 
— she  did  not  thrill  at  this  last  thought. 

She  could  not  deny  to  herself  that  she  should  be 
glad  to  see  Guthrie — but  it  was  only  her  curiosity,  she 
said,  that  she  would  gratify.  Guthrie's  vigorous,  mas- 
culine life,  his  keen  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  world, 
and  his  energy  and  optimism  appealed  to  her.  And 
this  journey  of  his  into  the  mountains  on  such  an 
errand,  and  then  the  coming  of  the  great  snow  enclos- 
ing and  shutting  out  him  and  Mr.  Pike,  had  the  savour 
of  knight-errantry — there  would  be  a  fine  story  to  tell, 
and  she  relished  tales  of  adventure. 

Above  all,  she  keenly  resented  the  presence  of  her 
mother  in  the  guise  of  a  mentor.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  why  Mrs.  Ransome  had  come  to  the  capital; 
no  quibble  or  excuse  could  conceal  it  from  her,  and  she 
was  angry  that  she  should  be  treated  as  a  child. 

Paul  Hastings  came  in,  and  after  the  customary 
words  of  greeting,  said: 

"Wilson" — Wilson  was  the  lieutenant-governor  and, 
therefore,  president  of  the  Senate — "tells  me  that  he  has 
just  had  a  telegram  from  Senator  Pike  at  Sayville, 
saying  that  he  will  arrive  here  at  noon  to-morrow, 
and " 

He  paused,  and  looked  rather  curiously  around  the 
little  circle. 


202  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"And  Mr.  Guthrie  comes  with  him?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hastings. 

"Guthrie,"  the  Senator  added,  "was  to    take    the 
east  bound  train  at  midnight  for  New  York." 

Clarice,  despite  herself,  looked  up  in  surprise.     Mrs. 
Ransome  breathed  a  silent  sigh  of  relief. 

"Why  on  earth  is  he  doing  that?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hastings. 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  Governor. 


CHAPTER  XIH 
IN  THE  REALMS  OP  FINANCE 

GUTHRIE  made  the  trip  to  Sayville  with  Mr.  Pike, 
and  it  is  one  that  he  will  never  forget.  The  moun- 
tains shed  water.  Rivers  of  it  dashed  through  every 
ravine,  and  now  and  then  the  melting  snow,  under- 
mined at  the  base,  poured  down  in  tons.  But  the  two 
escaped  all  dangers,  and  at  last  reached  the  railroad 
station.  A  mile  from  their  destination,  they  met  the 
Waterford  militia  company  already  on  the  march  for 
Briarton.  Guthrie  told  the  captain  that  the  people 
would  now  make  no  attempt  to  lynch  Dilger,  but  the 
officer,  true  to  his  orders,  kept  on  his  way,  and  in  due 
time  reached  the  village. 

At  the  station,  Guthrie  informed  Mr.  Pike  that  he 
was  going  to  New  York  instead  of  the  capital,  and 
the  Senator  looked  his  surprise,  but  said  nothing. 

"It's  of  great  importance,"  said  Guthrie,  "but  I 
hope  to  be  back  soon." 

He  sent  a  despatch  to  his  home  office,  telling  of 
his  errand  and  his  hopes — again  taking  the  chance 
of  approval  —  and  a  little  later  he  boarded  an 
epst-bound  local  train,  receiving  a  hearty  grasp 
of  the  hand  and  farewell  from  Mr.  Pike,  who  was 
yet  at  the  station,  waiting  for  his  own  westward 
train. 

Fifty  miles  farther  on,  where  the  expresses  make 

203 


204  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

their  only  stop  in  the  mountains,  he  left  the  "local" 
and  waited  for  the  through  train  for  New  York,  which 
arrived  an  hour  late,  and,  picking  him  up,  whirled 
him  on  eastward. 

Guthrie  was  in  a  berth  in  one  of  the  finest  trains  that 
runs  between  the  East  and  the  Middle  West,  one  that 
skims  every  day  over  the  mountains,  its  passengers 
surrounded  by  luxury,  never  realising  the  primitive 
wilderness  through  which  they  are  shot  at  the  rate  of 
forty  miles  an  hour.  But  it  was  all  real  and  vital  to 
Guthrie,  who  was  beginning  to  understand  its  pas- 
sions and  its  sentiments,  and  who,  as  he  sat  amid  the 
plush,  and  the  mahogany,  and  the  polished  brass,  had 
a  singular  little  longing  for  tiny,  lonely  Briarton  in  its 
cove  among  the  peaks. 

But  his  mind  soon  turned  to  the  task  before  him — 
no  light  one — and,  having  always  made  it  a  rule  to  secure 
rest  when  rest  was  needed,  he  went  to  bed,  and  in  half 
an  hour  was  sound  asleep. 

He  awoke  the  next  morning  among  the  rolling  hills 
of  the  East,  and  a  little  after  dark  arrived  in  New  York. 
The  morning  after  that  he  sent  from  his  hotel  to  Jimmy 
Warfield  this  telegram: 

"What  is  state  of  affairs?  For  God's  sake, fight  off 
vote  as  long  as  you  can.  I  may  bring  help." 

In  two  hours,  the  reply  came: 

"Pike  arrived,  and  says  he  will  vote  for  Carton. 
Takes  four  Republican  senators  with  him,  and  chances 
now  so  nearly  even  that  each  side  afraid  to  push  for  a 
vote.  Carton  saved  for  present,  but  for  future  our 
hopes  in  you." 

"What  a  loyal  fellow  he  is  to  his  friends!"  was 
Guthrie's  unspoken  comment.  "He  doesn't  know 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        205 

why  I'm  here,  but  he  takes  my  word  for  it  that  I'm  to 
make  a  find." 

His  next  step  was  to  find  the  address  of  Purvis  & 
Eaton  in  the  city  directory,  and  then  he  went  down  to 
the  number  given  in  Nassau  Street,  near  Wall.  Guth- 
rie  had  been  in  New  York  before,  but  the  roar  and  rush 
of  the  mighty  down-town  canyons  called  streets  almost 
stunned  him,  coming  now  from  the  silence  and  peace 
of  the  mountains.  However,  his  thoughts  lingered 
little  on  these  phases;  he  was  too  intent  on  his  plan  of 
campaign,  and  his  object  was  to  spy  out  the  country  of 
the  one  whom  he  considered  the  enemy. 

The  office  of  the  great  financiers  indicated  massive- 
ness  and  simplicity.  It  was  on  the  second  floor  of  a 
white  stone  building  of  severe  architecture,  and  occu- 
pied, so  Guthrie  reckoned,  at  least  a  dozen  rooms. 
The  men  who  passed  in  or  out  wore  silk  hats  and  frock 
coats,  and  were  mostly  of  full  flesh.  Everything  bore 
the  appearance  of  wealth  and  importance. 

Satisfied  for  the  present  with  this  external  inspection, 
Guthrie  returned  to  his  hotel,  which  he  had  purposely 
chosen  in  the  down-town  district  in  order  that  he  might 
always  be  near  to  his  field  of  battle.  There  he  bought 
all  the  morning  papers  and  looked  carefully  over  their 
financial  columns,  but  he  found  nowhere  a  quotation 
of  "United"  bonds  or  stock,  preferred  or  common. 
He  had  not  really  expected  to  find  such  quotations,  as 
the  company  was  yet  without  a  charter,  but  he  was  not 
willing  to  neglect  any  possible  source  of  information. 
Then  he  went  forth  upon  a  second  expedition. 

It  was  his  purpose  now  to  buy  a  share  of  "  United  " 
stock,  or  at  least  to  make  an  offer  for  it,  if  there  was 
such  a  thing  in  the  market,  and  he  decided  to  attempt 


206  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

the  purchase  as  close  as  possible  to  the  offices  of  Purvis 
&  Eaton.  He  had  noticed  brokers'  signs  on  doors 
in  the  same  building,  and  he  entered  one  on  the  third 
floor.  He  gave  his  name  and  State,  and  then  mentioned 
the  stock  that  he  wished  to  buy.  The  broker  looked 
at  him  with  some  curiosity. 

"There  is  no  such  stock  in  the  market,"  he  said. 

"I  was  told  that  Messrs.  Purvis  &  Eaton,  the  bank- 
ers in  this  building,  were  financing  the  company," 
said  Guthrie  boldly,  surmising  that  this  assertion 
would  act  as  a  leading  question. 

"I  recall  it,"  said  the  broker  meditatively,  "and  if 
I  mistake  not,  Purvis  &  Eaton  were  to  bond  and  stock 
the  scheme.  But  I  haven't  heard  anything  of  it  re- 
cently; I  suppose  it's  fallen  through;  lots  of  these 
Western  and  Southern  enterprises  do,  you  know." 

Guthrie  thanked  him,  and  went  out,  his  heart  beating 
happily.  The  broker's  words  were  vague,  but  they 
confirmed — if  a  conviction  can  be  confirmed — the 
belief  that  he  had  formed  when  Senator  Pike's  chance 
words  at  Briarton  gave  to  him  the  name  of  Purvis 
&  Eaton.  He  walked  again  by  their  offices,  and  looked 
up  at  the  massive  sign,  "Purvis  &  Eaton,  Bankers, 
New  York,  Paris,  and  London,"  and  watched  the 
portly,  silk-hatted,  and  frock-coated  men  go  in  and 
out.  "I  shall  get  at  you  yet,"  he  said  to  himself,  con- 
fidently and  triumphantly. 

He  devoted  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  inquiries  con- 
cerning Purvis  &  Eaton,  bankers.  He  went  to  the 
galleries  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  asking  chance  questions 
there,  and  at  last  he  introduced  himself  to  the  financial 
editors  of  the  great  newspapers,  and  sought  informa- 
tion from  them. 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        207 

Sometimes  he  was  rebuffed,  and  sometimes  his  ques- 
tions were  answered;  but  Guthrie  noticed  in  all  the 
replies  a  certain  caution  and  reserve,  as  if  his  inform- 
ants were  not  telling  quite  all  they  knew.  His  keen 
instinct  at  once  told  him  the  cause:  this  firm,  despite 
its  great  business  and  its  dignified  connections,  had 
one  little  shady  corner.  Purvis  &  Eaton,  he  learned, 
operated  all  over  the  world,  and  there  were  five  partners, 
three  Americans,  an  Englishman,  and  a  German. 

This  was  the  limit  of  his  day's  work,  and  after  dark 
he  went  to  his  hotel  and  sent  to  Jimmy  Warfield  this 
brief  telegram:  "How  are  things?"  In  an  hour 
came  the  briefer  reply:  "Status  quo."  Guthrie  had 
a  great  feeling  of  satisfaction,  and  in  the  night  he 
walked  across  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  looking  down 
upon  the  scene  of  the  world's  greatest  activity,  all 
dark  and  quiet  now.  It  was  his  conclusion  that  the 
darkness  hid  alike  much  that  was  good  and  much  that 
was  bad. 

The  next  day,  he  pursued  the  same  line  of  inquiry, 
trying  to  find  exactly  what  that  shady  corner  in  the 
business  of  Purvis  &  Eaton  covered.  He  noticed  in 
the  most  solid  of  the  morning  papers  a  small  adver- 
tisement by  the  firm,  stating  that  they  were  dealers 
in  State  and  city  bonds,  and  could  furnish  good  in- 
vestments. He  found  later  that  they  made  a  specialty 
of  the  West  and  the  South,  and  at  last,  in  his  pursuit 
of  shares  of  the  United  Electric,  Gas,  Power,  Light, 
and  Heating  Company,  he  came  to  one  broker,  who, 
in  anger,  told  just  what  he  wanted  to  know. 

"That,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  one  of  Charlie  Warren's 
schemes  1" 

Warren,  as  Guthrie  had  ascertained,  was  the  young- 


208  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

est  partner  in  the  firm  of  Purvis  &  Eaton.  But  he 
said  nothing,  waiting  for  the  broker,  who,  he  judged, 
had  got  the  worst  of  some  transaction  with  Warren, 
to  continue,  as  he  seemed  willing  to  do. 

"I  don't  know  what  has  come  of  it,"  continued  the 
broker,  "but,  if  it  goes  through,  as  likely  it  will,  the 
bonds  and  stock  of  the  company  will  be  worth  a  lot 
of  money." 

"But  our  city  is  hardly  large  enough  to  pay  big 
dividends  on  rival  street  railway,  electric  light,  heating, 
and  gas  companies,"  said  Guthrie  mildly. 

The  broker  looked  at  Guthrie  with  rather  an  amused 
glance,  and  contracted  his  left  eyelid  just  a  trifle,  so 
much  as  to  say:  "Well,  you  are  a  green  one." 

"Do  you  take  Charlie  Warren  for  a  fool?"  he 
asked. 

"I  do  not  know  anything  about  him." 

"So  it  seems.  Charlie  Warren  and  the  firm  of 
Purvis  &  Eaton  do  not  dream  of  running  a  street  rail- 
way, an  electric  light,  or  any  other  kind  of  a  company. 
They  have  a  better  use  for  their  time  and  money  than 
that." 

"Then  what  do  they  want?" 

"Why,  to  sell  out  to  the  old  companies  the  moment 
they  get  their  charter.  It's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
your  face,  and  as  simple  as  A,  B,  C.  It  can  be  done, 
too,  right  along,  if  you  are  powerful  enough  and  un- 
scrupulous enough  to  do  it.  You  see,  all  these  West- 
ern and  Southern  States  are  aflame  against  corporations 
and  monopolies,  and  they  are  honest  in  it,  too,  but 
their  anger  can  be  used  for  other  purposes.  Just  find 
a  large  city  where  a  company  has  had  an  exclusive 
public  franchise  of  any  kind,  then  you  go  up  to  the 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        209 

Legislature  with  an  application  for  a  franchise  for  a 
new  and  rival  corporation  to  break  the  power  of  the 
old — all  in  the  people's  interest,  of  course — and,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  it  will  go  through  if  pushed  well." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then — after  a  while,  when  the  noise  about  it 
has  died  out,  the  new  company  sells  out  to  the  old — 
compels  it  to  buy,  so  to  speak — sort  of  legal  blackmail, 
and  there  you  are;  the  old  company  still  has  its  monop- 
oly, the  new  company  has  its  price,  and  the  public  its 
experience.  Young  man,  there  are  more  ways  than 
one  in  this  world  to  whip  the  devil  around  the  stumpl" 

"I  see,"  said  Guthrie,  and  thanking  the  man,  he 
went  out.  "They  say  that  'hell  hath  no  fury  like  a 
woman  scorned,'"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "but  I 
fancy  that  one  broker  worsted  in  a  trade  by  another  is 
just  about  as  bad." 

This  concluded  another  day's  work,  and  again,  at 
nightfall,  Guthrie  telegraphed  an  inquiry  to  Jimmy 
Warfield,  and  back  came  the  answer,  "status  quo." 

Then  Guthrie  sent  another  message  which  read: 
"Keep  it  up;  things  here  beginning  to  come  our  way." 

Jimmy  Warfield  received  this  second  telegram  a 
little  before  midnight,  and  his  face  glowed  as  he  read 
it.  Then  he  took  it  to  Carton,  who  was  still  awake, 
gloomily  gazing  out  of  the  window.  "I  don't  know 
what  it  means,"  said  Warfield,  "but  Billy  Guthrie 
never  would  send  a  telegram  like  that  unless  he  had 
something  up  his  sleeve." 

"He  certainly  would  not,"  said  Carton,  his  face 
lighting  up  with  hope. 

Guthrie  now  prepared  himself  for  the  boldest  stroke 
of  all— one  that  he  would  not  have  tried,  had  he  not 


210  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

been  absolutely  sure  of  his  ground.  He  went  the  next 
morning  to  the  office  of  Purvis  &  Eaton,  and  sent  his 
correspondent's  card  to  the  great  Mr.  Warren,  to  be 
informed  a  few  minutes  later  by  the  supercilious  mes- 
senger that  Mr.  Warren  was  too  busy  to  see  any  news- 
paper representative. 

Guthrie  was  not  disconcerted.  He  understood  the 
important  manner,  and  he  had  learned  early  that  men 
really  great  never  have  an  important  manner. 

He  wrote  a  note  to  Mr.  Warren,  saying  briefly  that 
he  expected  to  send  to  the  Times  a  full  account  of 
Purvis  &  Eaton's  interest  in  the  Electric,  Gas,  Power, 
Light,  and  Heating  Company's  bill.  He  had  ascer- 
tained that  the  bill  was  prepared  in  their  office,  pushed 
through  by  their  lobbyist,  Mr.  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow, 
and  that  no  preparation  had  ever  been  made,  even  to 
begin  a  plant  in  case  of  the  bill's  passage.  The  public, 
therefore,  must  infer  that  the  new  company,  if  it  ob- 
tained a  charter,  merely  intended  to  force  the  old  ones 
to  buy  out  its  privileges.  If  Messrs.  Purvis  &  Eaton 
cared  to  say  anything,  he  would  be  glad  to  annex  it  to 
his  account. 

"Take  this  to  Mr.  Warren,"  said  Guthrie  to  the 
messenger. 

The  boy  hesitated,  but  Guthrie's  stern  gaze  cowed 
him,  and  he  disappeared  within  the  doors.  Guthrie 
had  no  doubt  of  the  result.  He  knew  how,  in  gambling 
language,  to  meet  a  bluff  with  a  bluff,  and  he  waited, 
at  ease.  The  messenger  was  a  much  longer  time  than 
before  in  returning.  Finally,  he  came  with  word  that 
the  partners  would  see  the  visitor,  and  Guthrie  followed 
him  through  offices  in  which  many  clerks  toiled  at 
great  ledgers,  and  through  one  door  he  caught  a  glimpse 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        211 

of  a  boy  marking  quotations  on  a  high  blackboard. 
Then  the  messenger  opened  another  door,  and,  with 
the  words,  "the  partners  will  see  you  here,  sir,"  left 
him. 

Guthrie  stepped  into  the  private  office  of  Messrs. 
Purvis  &  Eaton,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
Four  of  the  partners  were  present,  two  of  the  Americans, 
the  Englishman,  and  the  German.  Three  of  them 
were  men  of  fifty  or  more,  heavy,  portly,  side-whiskered, 
and  dressed  in  black.  But  the  fourth,  who  was  not 
over  forty-five,  was  thin,  smoothly  shaven,  and  wore 
a  gray  sack  suit.  Guthrie  knew  instinctively  that  this 
was  Mr.  Warren. 

No  one  asked  him  to  be  seated,  and,  of  his  own  ac- 
cord, he  took  a  chair.  Then  he  glanced  coolly  around 
the  room,  which  was  darkly  carpeted,  had  mahogany 
chairs  on  the  floor  and  large  portraits  of  the  five  part- 
ners on  the  wall.  As  none  of  the  partners  yet  spoke, 
evidently  waiting  for  him  to  do  so,  he  continued  his 
survey  of  the  room,  and  also  remained  silent. 

Guthrie  noticed  that  the  four  men  were  gazing  at 
him  in  a  haughty  and  reproving  manner,  but  he  was 
not  awed.  The  element  of  respect,  even  deference, 
was  not  lacking  in  his  composition.  He  valued  money, 
and  he  thought  it  a  silly  affectation  to  pretend  to  despise 
it;  but  the  money-king  never  appealed  to  him  as  a  great 
man.  Once  a  bank  cashier  in  a  moment  of  conde- 
scension had  said  to  him:  "You  look  like  a  grave  and 
sensible  young  man,  Mr.  Guthrie,  and,  by  application, 
you  may  in  time  become  a  cashier  as  I  am,"  but  Guth- 
rie was  not  flattered.  He  had  been  taught  to  look 
toward  other  ideals.  To  him,  the  great  men  were  the 
great  statesmen,  and  writers,  and  soldiers,  and  artists, 


212  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

and  ministers.  Lincoln  and  Thackeray  were  infinitely 
more  inspiring  names  to  him  than  Rothschild  or  Rocke- 
feller. It  was,  therefore,  with  perfect  calmness  that 
he  faced  the  four  partners,  who,  he  knew  perfectly  well, 
would  try  to  browbeat  him  and  make  him  feel  as  if  he 
were  a  presumptuous  intruder. 

The  youngest  of  them  held  Guthrie's  card  in  his 
hand,  and  twirled  it  rather  contemptuously.  Guthrie 
noticed  the  action,  and  glanced  indifferently  out  of  the 
window. 

"  This  is  an  extraordinary,  I  may  say,  an  impertinent 
note  that  you  have  sent  us!"  at  last  said  the  senior  and 
plumpest  partner,  Mr.  Purvis. 

"It  did  not  impress  me  as  being  impertinent,"  re- 
plied Guthrie  coolly.  "  At  any  rate,  your  Mr.  Warren 
made  it  necessary;  I  sent  in  my  card  at  first  with  no 
note  at  all." 

"This  is  a  threat,"  continued  the  senior  partner, 
the  dull  red  flushing  into  his  cheeks.  "You  tell  us 
that  you  are  going  to  publish  an  article  defaming  one 
of  the  largest  and  most  reputable  banking  firms  in 
New  York  City.  It  is  blackmail,  it  is " 

"Kindly  stop  where  you  are,"  said  Guthrie,  "you 
make  nothing  by  calling  me  names.  I  stated  facts  in 
that  note.  I  have  ascertained  beyond  a  doubt  that 
you  originated  and  pushed  the  bill  for  the  'United.' 
You  are  at  the  back  of  the  fight  against  Mr.  Carton, 
the  Speaker  of  the  House  in  our  State,  because  he 
divined  the  purpose  of  this  bill,  and,  through  his  power 
as  Speaker,  has  long  prevented  its  passage.  You  are 
the  cause  of  his  present  impeachment.  He  is  my  friend, 
and  I  shall  serve  both  him  and  the  cause  of 
justice." 


213 

Mr.  Purvis  was  about  to  speak,  evidently  with  anger, 
but  the  junior  partner,  Mr.  Warren,  raised  his  hand. 

"May  I  ask,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  smoothly,  glanc- 
ing at  the  card  when  he  uttered  the  name,  as  if  his 
memory  did  not  serve  in  so  slight  a  matter,  "  where  you 
have  learned  all  this  very  interesting  romance?" 

"You  mean  history,  not  romance;  by  many  inquiries 
among  bankers,  brokers,  financial  writers,  and  others. 
I  am  willing  to  tell  you  also  that,  in  anticipation  of  the 
passage  of  the  bill,  you  gave  the  contract  for  printing  the 
stock  and  bond  certificates  to  the  American  Printing 
Company,  24£  Nassau  Street,  and  their  work,  very 
neatly  and  handsomely  done,  is  now  ready  for  delivery." 

The  junior  partner  bit  his  lip,  but  in  a  moment  recov- 
ered his  suavity. 

"Very  interesting,"  he  said,  "and  suppose,  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  we  should  grant  its  truth,  what  then  ? 
So  far,  we  are  entirely  within  our  rights.  It  is  our  busi- 
ness to  place  stocks  and  bonds.  One  of  our  functions 
is  that  of  a  sales-agent." 

"Undoubtedly." 

"What  then  becomes  of  your  second  charge  that  it  is 
our  purpose,  and  has  been  our  purpose  from  the  first,  to 
compel  the  old  companies  to  buy  us  out.  That  is  a 
very  difficult  thing  to  prove,  and  your  newspaper  will  be 
liable  in  heavy  damages." 

"The  charge  stands.  I  shall  make  it,  and  take  all 
chances.  I  know  morally  that  it  is  true,  and  I  can  pile 
up  enough  evidence  to  convince  anybody.  And  I  tell 
you,  too,  for  your  information  that  you  could  not  possibly 
get  a  jury  in  my  State,  where  such  a  case  would  have  to 
be  tried,  to  give  a  verdict  in  this  connection  against  the 
Times  and  in  favour  of  a  distant  corporation  like  yours." 


214  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Then,  why  have  you  come  here  at  all?" 

"To  take  your  statement,  if  you  care  to  give  it.  We 
are  fair;  we  do  not  wish  to  publish  one  side  and  suppress 
the  other." 

Here  Mr.  Purvis,  who  had  been  heaving  and  flushing 
in  silence,  broke  all  bounds. 

"Get  out,  you  impudent  young  rascal!  How  dare 
you  come  here  and  talk  in  this  manner  to  us!"  he  cried. 

"I  may  be  impudent,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  young,  but 
I  am  not  a  financial  pirate;  I  don't  try  to  make  money 
by  plundering  others." 

The  suave  Mr.  Warren  intervened. 

"Mr.  Guthrie  has  shown  himself  very  enterprising," 
he  said,  "  but  I  cannot  understand  why  he  wishes  to  put 
such  motives  into  a  legitimate  business  transaction. 
Our  purpose  is  entirely  within  the  law — both  legal  and 
moral — but,  at  the  same  time,  we  do  not  care  to  have 
the  name  of  an  old  and  honoured  firm  showered 
with  innuendo  in  the  public  prints.  Will  nothing 
induce  you  to  stop  the  sending  of  this  despatch, 
Mr.  Guthrie?" 

"Nothing!  Do  you  care  to  make  any  statement  that 
I  can  publish  with  it?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Then,  we  are  wasting  each  other's  time.  Good  day." 

"Good  day." 

Guthrie  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out,  followed  by  the 
frowning  glances  of  the  partners.  In  the  hall,  he  rang 
the  bell  for  the  elevator,  and,  when  it  came,  a  single 
passenger  stepped  from  it — a  middle-aged  man,  with 
gray  hair  carefully  brushed  back  from  his  temples,  and 
a  smoothly  shaven,  wary  face. 

It  was  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow. 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        215 

He  started,  and  Guthrie,for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
saw  him  show  surprise. 

"I  am  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Harlow,"  he  said— and 
he  told  the  truth.  "I  have  just  come  from  an  interview 
with  your  employers." 

"Ah!" 

"And  they  are  not  happy." 

"No?" 

"No,  they  are  not.  Mr.  Harlow,  I  know  the  whole 
story;  it  will  appear  in  the  Times  in  the  morning." 

Caius  Marcellus  Harlow  bent  upon  him  a  curious 
look;  it  was  not  anger  nor  even  disappointment;  there 
was  in  it  a  trace  of  admiration. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "you  win,"  and  bowing  he 
passed  on  toward  the  office  of  Purvis  &  Eaton. 

Guthrie  walked  slowly  to  his  hotel.  Once  he  glanced 
back,  and  saw  following  him  at  a  little  distance  the  mes- 
senger who  had  shown  him  into  the  private  office  of 
Purvis  &  Eaton.  But  he  did  not  care. 

At  the  hotel,  he  sent  to  Jimmy  Warfield  once  more  the 
inquiry  "how  are  things?"  and  back  came  the  old 
answer,  "Status  quo."  Then  he  sent  to  Warfield  an- 
other despatch:  "Have  everything;  see  Timet  in  the 
morning,"  and  after  that  he  wired  to  his  home  office  this 
bulletin:  "Full  details  of  conspiracy  against  Carton; 
ten  thousand  words  to-night;  pay  no  attention  to 
despatches  from  Purvis  &  Eaton.  Absolutely  sure  of 
facts."  Then  he  went  to  his  room,  cleared  his  table, 
and  began  to  write. 

There  were  ten  thousand  words  to  write,  but  Guth- 
rie knew  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  the  sentences 
flowed  from  his  pen.  Although  he  had  not  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  as  to  the  object  of  Purvis  &  Eaton,  he  would 


216  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

not  charge  them  directly  with  selling  out,  but  the  fact 
that  the  scheme  was  born  in  their  office — and  of  that  he 
had  plenty  of  proof— left  an  implication  so  clear  that  the 
public  could  never  mistake  it.  The  people,  not  the 
Times,  would  say  that  the  purpose  of  Purvis  &  Eaton 
was  to  sell  out,  and  Guthrie  knew  that  no  number  of 
denials  could  shake  a  belief  obviously  so  well-founded. 
As  for  the  threat  of  a  great  libel  suit,  he  had  not  the 
slightest  fear  of  it;  he  knew  that  it  would  never  go 
further  than  a  menace. 

He  found  the  writing  easy;  the  facts  marshalled  them- 
selves in  order,  and  he  felt  so  deeply  about  Carton  that 
he  drew  in  vivid  lines  the  picture  of  a  faithful  public  ser- 
vant whom  designing  people  sought  to  ruin  because 
they  could  not  shake  his  policy. 

He  had  been  writing  two  hours  when  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  Guthrie,  without  laying  down  his 
pencil,  called  "  Come  in ! "  The  door  was  opened,  and 
Mr.  Warren  and  Mr.  Harlow  entered.  Both  were 
suave  and  smiling  though  not  overdoing  it,  and  they 
sat  down  as  guests  who,  if  they  were  not  expected,  were 
at  least  not  unwelcome. 

"Writing  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Harlow  lightly  as  if  he  were 
passing  the  time  of  day. 

"Yes,"  replied  Guthrie  briefly,  "the  account  of  which 
I  told  Mr.  Warren  this  morning." 

"I  have  a  little  to  add  to  our  conversation  then,"  said 
Mr.  Warren;  "I  did  not  wish  to  speak  of  it  before  my 
partners,  who,  I  tell  you  in  confidence,  are  absorbed  in 
issues,  leaving  details  to  me." 

Guthrie  put  down  his  pencil,  and  gazed  intently  at 
Mr.  Warren,  who  flushed  and  paused  a  few  moments. 
"We  are  entirely  innocent  in  this  matter,"  continued 


IN  THE  REALMS  OF  FINANCE        217 

the  junior  partner  presently,  "  but  an  article  such  as  you 
are  writing  may  do  us  a  great  deal  of  harm.  A  libel 
once  disseminated  can  never  be  thoroughly  corrected. 
We  also  recognise  the  fact  that,  even  with  a  just  cause,  it 
is  practically  impossible  for  us  to  obtain  a  verdict  against 
the  Times,  before  a  partisan  jury  devoted  to  home  inter- 
ests and  influenced  against  foreign  corporations  by  the 
public  prints." 

"Well?"  said  Guthrie,  inquiringly. 

Mr.  Warren  hesitated  again,  the  tint  in  his  cheeks 
deepened,  and  he  glanced  at  his  ally,  Mr.  Harlow. 

"  I  merely  wish  to  tell  you,"  he  said, "  that,  in  a  vault 
in  a  safe  deposit  company  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  here,  there  is  a  sealed  envelope  containing  the 
sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars.  The  key  to  that  vault 
could  be  left " 

Guthrie  rose  at  once,  his  face  quite  gray. 

"Mr.  Warren,"  he  exclaimed,  "leave  my  room  at 
once!  And  as  for  you,  Mr.  Harlow,  I  am  astonished 
that  you  should  have  come  here  with  this  man  on  such 
an  errand." 

Mr.  Harlow  never  flinched. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said  quietly,  "a  statement  is  due 
both  to  you  and  to  myself.  Knowing  you  as  I  do,  I 
opposed  this  visit  and  its  purpose,  but  Mr.  Warren  is 
my  employer.  He  wished  to  take  this  last  chance  be- 
cause we  should  have  had  a  vote  to-morrow,  and  the 
impeachment  of  Carton  would  have  passed  the  Senate 
by  a  majority  of  two.  That  I  know  positively,  and, 
after  it,  our  bill  would  have  passed  with  a  insh.  Good 
day." 

"Good  day,"  said  Guthrie  as  they  went  out  Then 
he  resumed  his  writing. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH 

THE  next  morning  was  full  of  vivid  suspense  at  the 
little  capital  one  thousand  miles  away.  The  great  snow 
was  gone,  and  the  south  wind  still  blew.  Tender  shoots 
of  young  grass  were  appearing  in  sheltered  nooks  on  the 
hillsides.  Spring  was  not  far  away. 

All  steps  tended  toward  the  senate-chamber.  The 
evidence  was  all  in,  most  of  the  speeches  had  been  made, 
and  in  the  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  the  time  already 
being  set,  the  Senate  would  come  to  a  vote  on  the  great 
Carton  case  which  for  weeks  had  rent  the  State  into 
factions,  and  which  had  aroused  new  passions  in  a  com- 
monwealth already  taking  its  politics  very  seriously. 
Some  of  the  leaders  may  have  known  in  advance  how 
the  vote  would  stand,  but  the  public  did  not,  and  the 
uncertainty  of  the  result  lent  an  added  lustre  to  a 
case  already  possessing  so  many  vital  claims  to  popular 
interest. 

The  House  held  a  very  brief  session,  not  more  than 
half  an  hour  long,  and  then  the  members  went  in  to  the 
Senate  to  listen  to  the  close  of  the  famous  case.  Jimmy 
Warfield  was  with  the  crowd,  but  he  was  constantly 
turning  in  his  mind  a  great  secret — a  secret  it  was,  too, 
to  himself  as  well  as  to  others  and  he  could  not  rest.  He 
read  Guthrie's  message  over  and  over  again,  and  he  had 
the  utmost  confidence  in  Guthrie.  He  told  himself 

218 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  219 

that  he  could  never  doubt  his  friend's  promise,  but  as 
the  time  drew  near  he  was  a  prey  to  nervous  appre- 
hension. He  hired  a  boy  to  wait  at  the  railroad  station, 
and  to  hurry  to  him  as  quickly  as  possible  when  the  time 
came.  Then  he  compelled  himself  to  take  a  seat  in  the 
senate-chamber  beside  a  Senator  who  was  an  avowed 
Carton  adherent.  Extra  chairs  had  been  brought  in, 
and,  to  the  members  of  the  House,  seats  on  the  floor 
of  the  Senate  were  courteously  given. 

The  galleries  were  crowded,  largely  with  ladies,  begin- 
ning to  show  touches  of  spring  colours  now  in  their  cos- 
tumes, their  faces  bright  and  eager.  Nearly  all  of  them 
were  in  sympathy  with  Carton.  Warfield  saw  in  one 
group  Mrs.  Hastings,  Mrs.  Dennison,  the  Pelhams  and 
the  Ransomes.  Mary  Pclham's  face  was  white  and 
cold,  and  there  was  the  least  touch  of  a  dark  ring,  under 
her  eyes.  Warfield  knew  how  she  suffered ,  and  he  knew, 
too,  that,  if  she  had  followed  her  feelings,  she  would  have 
stayed  away  that  day,  but  her  pride  would  not  let  her. 

Back  of  the  ladies  were  the  officials  of  the  Govern- 
ment packed  in  a  dense  mass,  and  back  of  these  wrrr 
other  curious  spectators  and  the  floating  population. 
Suddenly  a  thrill  showing  itself  in  a  curious  flutter  ran 
through  the  whole  assemblage;  Carton  was  coming  in. 
"Just  like  him,"  thought  Warfield ;  "  he  was  sure  to  wait 
until  everybody  was  here,  and  then  enter  in  defiance  of 
all  his  enemies." 

Carton's  face  was  stern  and  high,  and,  taking  a  seat 
near  the  dais  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  he  looked  up 
and  bowed  to  three  or  four  friends  in  the  balconies. 
There  was  no  effusive  demonstration  of  indifference, 
but  his  bearing  was  so  quietly  firm  and  defiant  that  a 
murmur  of  applause  started  in  the  balconies,  ami 


220  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

began  to  rise,  but  the  Lieutenant-Governor  sternly 
checked  it. 

The  face  of  the  Lieutenant-Governor  was  inscrutable; 
if  he  knew  how  the  vote  was  going,  he  made  no  sign ;  if 
it  should  be  a  tie,  he  must  cast  the  deciding  ballot,  but 
he  had  presided  throughout  the  long  and  bitter  trial 
with  an  absolute  impartiality  and  justice  that  had  now 
the  applause  of  the  whole  State,  Carton  and  anti-Carton. 

Senator  Cobb  sat  at  one  of  the  front  desks,  his  face 
quite  stern,  and  it  was  known  that  he  would  vote  against 
Carton.  He  had  opposed  to  the  uttermost  the  calling 
of  the  vote — in  fact,  he  blocked  it  until  the  return  of  Mr. 
Pike;  but,  that  duty  done,  he  resumed  his  place  with  the 
anti-Carton  forces.  It  had  been  shown  that  the  Speaker 
had  referred  the  bill  for  the  "United"  to  a  hostile  com- 
mittee purposely  chosen  by  himself;  that,  at  his  sug- 
gestion, the  committee  had  delayed  the  report  for  weeks; 
that  all  efforts  of  the  friends  of  the  bill  to  get  it  before  the 
House  had  failed  for  a  long  time  because  he  would  not 
recognise  a  member  who  arose  to  make  such  a  motion, 
recognising  somebody  else  instead.  By  such  tactics,  he 
had  fought  off  a  measure  that  was  obviously,  so  many 
said,  in  the  interest  of  the  public  and  against  monopoly. 

Senator  Cobb  did  not  believe  that  Carton  had  profited 
financially  by  the  use  of  such  tactics,  but  he  did  believe 
him  to  be  the  indirect  agent  of  the  "money  power,"  be- 
cause he  was  allied  with  that  power  by  tastes  and  sym- 
pathy. But  Mr.  Pursley,  sitting  only  a  few  chairs  away, 
had  stated  openly  and  many  times  his  belief  that  Car- 
ton's pockets  were  lined  with  ill-gotten  gains.  Now 
Mr.  Pursley's  face  was  shining  with  triumph.  Carton, 
whom  he  hated  for  his  superiority  and  who  had  insulted 
him,  was  about  to  go  down  in  disgrace,  and  he,  Mr. 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  221 

Pursley,  would  appear  as  the  tribune  of  the  people. 
Near  Mr.  Pursley  sat  the  Honourable  Henry  Clay  War- 
ner, the  member  of  Congress  for  Guthrie's  own  dis- 
trict, the  famous  old  Fourth.  He  too  claimed  to  be  a 
tribune  of  the  people,  and  he  had  come  on  from  Wash- 
ington to  witness  the  conclusion  of  the  great  trial,  and 
incidentally  to  shed  opinion  on  the  duties  of  a  public 
man.  He  was  not  less  rubicund  than  Mr.  Pursley,  and 
his  heavy  figure  sprawled  awkwardly  in  his  chair. 

Three  chairs  farther  on  was  Mr.  Pike.  He  had  taken 
little  part  in  the  great  debate,  but  his  short  and  few  sen- 
tences had  been  incisive.  He  had  called  attention  to 
Carton's  lofty  character  as  attested  by  numerous  proofs, 
and  he  thought  that  the  Speaker  of  the  House  had  a 
right  to  hold  back  the  bill  by  all  means  in  his  power  if 
he  believed  it  to  be  introduced  for  corrupt  purposes. 
For  the  other  side,  he  had  little  severe  criticism;  to  them 
he  too  ascribed  honest  opinions.  Men  said  that  the  char- 
acter of  the  mountain  Senator  had  become  singularly 
mellowed. 

There  was  one  speech  yet  to  be  made  for  the  prosecu- 
tion by  a  senator  who  dealt  much  in  fierce  invectives, 
and  he  began  shortly  after  the  entrance  of  the  members 
from  the  House.  He  had  much  to  say  about  the  liber- 
ties of  freemen  and  the  corrupting  influence  of  the 
money  power  working  through  insidious  agents.  Jimmy 
Warfield  paid  little  attention  to  what  he  was  saying,  but, 
being  restless  went  into  the  lobby  and  joined  the  group 
about  the  Governor's  wife.  He  sat  down  by  Clarice, 
and  she  noticed  his  face  with  an  indirect  but  keen  glance. 

"You  look  cheerful,  Mr.  Warfield,  as  if  you  expected 
something,"  she  said.  "  What  do  you  think  will  be  the 
result  of  the  vote?" 


222  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

"Carton's  enemies  claim  that  it  will  expel  him," 
replied  Warfield,  in  so  low  a  tone  that  Mary  Pelham 
could  not  hear. 

"What  a  shame!  I  do  not  believe  that  Mr.  Carton 
ever  did  a  dishonourable  thing!" 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Jimmy  emphatically. 

"If  the  vote  is  to  go  against  him,  how  can  you  see 
any  cause  for  cheerfulness,  Mr.  Warfield?" 

"'While's  there's  life,  there's  hope,'"  quoted  War- 
field. 

He  excused  himself  in  a  moment,  and  went  back  to 
his  seat  on  the  floor.  The  speaker  for  the  prosecution 
was  making  points,  and,  despite  the  presiding  officer's 
gavel,  applause  arose  now  and  then  from  the  anti- 
Carton  crowd. 

Jimmy  Warfield,  notwithstanding  his  light  manner, 
was  a  man  of  great  strength  of  mind,  but  he  found  it 
hard  to  control  his  impatience.  He  moved  in  his  seat; 
he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  he  listened  eagerly  for 
something  that  he  did  not  hear.  The  prosecuting 
senator  soared  on  and  on,  pouring  out  his  philippic. 
Carton  in  his  seat  near  the  lieutenant-governor's  dais 
never  stirred,  and  the  calm  expression  of  his  face  did 
not  change. 

A  faint  note  of  a  whistle  from  the  hills  to  the  west  of 
the  Capitol  came  to  the  listening  ear  of  Jimmy  War- 
field,  and  he  stirred  again  in  his  seat.  The  whistle 
was  swiftly  followed  by  the  rumble  and  roar  of  the  ar- 
riving train,  and  then  in  a  few  moments  by  another 
rumble  and  roar,  as  it  disappeared  in  the  east. 

Jimmy  did  not  move  now.  He  listened,  but  he  did 
not  hear  a  word  of  the  senator  who  was  on  the  rising 
side  of  a  period.  He  turned  in  his  wheeled  chair  pres- 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH 

ently,  and  gazed  at  the  door,  and  his  face  was  illumined 
in  a  most  wonderful  manner  when  he  saw  a  little  ragged 
boy  appear  at  the  entrance  of  the  senate-chamber,  and 
hand  to  a  page  a  small  package  in  a  paper  wrapper. 
The  page  tiptoed  down  the  aisle,  and  gave  the  package 
to  Warfield. 

Warfield  fingered  the  bundle  nervously.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  it  contained  his  copy  of  the  morn- 
ing's issue  of  the  Times,  delivered  to  him  a  little  ahead 
of  the  others.  But  what  would  the  Times  contain? 

He  tore  off  the  wrapper,  and  dropped  it  on  the  floor; 
then  he  opened  the  newspaper,  and  swept  the  first  page 
with  a  comprehensive  glance.  Then  Jimmy  Warfield 
uttered  a  low  cry  of  exultation  that,  low  as  it  waa, 
startled  the  Senate,  stopped  the  orator,  and  drew  all 
eyes  to  him. 

But  Jimmy  Warfield  was  not  abashed.  Rising  to 
his  feet,  the  outspread  paper  with  its  great,  black  head- 
lines, and  its  columns  and  columns  of  a  leaded  despatch 
spreading  over  the  first  page  and  beyond,  held  firmly  in 
his  hand,  he  thus  addressed  the  Senate: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  a  member  of  this  body,  and 
I  am  present  upon  the  floor  by  courtesy;  but  something 
of  the  greatest  importance  bearing  directly  upon  the  case 
before  you  has  just  come  into  my  hands.  I,  therefore, 
request  the  gentleman  from  Warner  County  to  bring 
it  to  the  attention  of  the  Senate." 

He  handed  the  Times  to  Senator  Cobb,  who  glanced 
over  the  first  page.  As  he  did  so,  Warfield  saw  a 
startled  look  appear  on  his  face.  But  in  a  moment 
Senator  Cobb  rose  to  his  feet,  and  said: 

"Fellow  senators,  Mr.  Warfield  has  given  into  my 
hand  a  document  that  changes  the  whole  aspect  of  this 


224  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

case.  I  ask  that  the  clerk  of  the  Senate  read  it  aloud 
at  once." 

An  indescribable  thrill  ran  through  the  lobbies  as 
the  Senator  spoke.  There  was  a  hum,  a  murmur,  the 
noise  of  many  people  moving,  and  then  the  dead  silence 
of  expectation.  Jimmy  Warfield  saw  the  deep  red 
flush  come  into  Mary  Pelham's  cheeks,  and  then  retreat, 
leaving  them  marble-white.  Mr.  Pursley,  too,  turned 
white,  but  for  another  reason.  Warfield  saw  a  single 
questioning  look  appear  in  the  eye  of  Carton,  and  then 
the  face  of  the  Speaker  became  as  stern  and  expression- 
less as  ever. 

"Read!  Read!"  cried  the  senators,  and  the  paper 
was  hurriedly  taken  by  a  page  to  the  clerk's  desk. 

The  clerk  of  the  Senate  was  a  big  man  with  a  big 
voice,  and,  in  the  attentive  silence,  he  read  first  the  head- 
lines, his  deep  bass  notes  filling  all  the  room: 

SPEAKER  CARTON  INNOCENT! 


THE  GREAT  CONSPIRACY  AGAINST  HIM  UNEARTHED! 


ITS  HEAD  AND  HEART  FOUND  IN  A  BANKER'S  OFFICE 
IN  NEW  YORK  CITY 


ALL  THE  PLANS  OF  THE  NEW  COMPANY  TO  FORCE  THE 
OLD  OVER  TO  BUY  IT  Our  LAID  BARE 


CARTON  WAS  TO  BE  BROKEN  ON  THE  WHEEL  BECAUSE 

HE  WAS  THE  MAIN  OBSTACLE  TO  THE 

REAPING  OF  FRAUDULENT  PROFITS 


THE  CORRESPONDENT  OF  THE  TIMES  SEES  PURVIS  & 

EATON,  THE  NEW  YORK  BANKERS  WHO  WERE 

FINANCING  THE  SCHEME 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  225 

The  Clerk  paused  for  a  moment  after  reading  the 
head-lines. 

"By  Jove,  that  head-liner  understood  his  business!" 
murmured  Jimmy  Warfield  in  devout  thankfulness. 
Then  there  came  a  sudden  burst  of  applause  like  the 
crackle  of  guns.  Carton's  face  turned  red;  Warfield 
saw  his  lips  moving,  and  he  knew  how  deep  and  in- 
tense was  the  Speaker's  relief.  The  presiding  officer 
was  beating  with  his  gavel  for  order,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments it  was  restored. 

"Continue  the  reading,  Mr.  Clerk,"  said  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor. 

Then  the  Clerk  read  in  his  full,  clear  voice  that 
slurred  no  word.  Guthrie's  account  began  at  the  be- 
ginning. It  described  the  office  of  Messrs.  Purvis  & 
Eaton,  its  position  in  New  York,  and  the  character  of 
the  business  that  the  firm  did.  He  told  how  they 
employed  skilled  lobbyists  in  distant  western  and 
southern  states — especially  in  those  where  the  feeling 
against  corporations  ran  the  highest — and  how  they 
had  prepared  the  bill  for  the  "United."  He  told  of 
the  printing  of  the  stocks  and  bonds  by  the  order  of 
Messrs.  Purvis  &  Eaton;  how  they  had  paid  lobby- 
ists at  the  capital  to  work  for  it,  and  the  total  absence 
of  any  preparations  to  erect  plants  in  case  the  bill 
should  become  a  law.  Everything  was  laid  bare, 
every  detail  was  clear;  the  listening  people  involun- 
tarily pictured  to  themselves  how  the  plot  was  formed 
in  the  office  of  the  bankers,  the  vision  of  great  profits, 
the  employment  of  shrewd  agents,  the  arousing  of  the 
Legislature  and  the  people  by  the  cry  of  "Down  with 
the  monopolies!"  and  the  purchase,  perhaps,  of  a  few 
corrupt  members  to  work  night  and  day  for  the  bill — 


226  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

here  eyes,  as  if  by  a  common  impulse  were  bent  upon 
Mr.  Pursley,  and  he  turned  white  again — then  the  op- 
position of  the  powerful  Speaker,  followed  by  the  plan 
of  the  conspirators  to  break  and  ruin  him. 

The  Clerk  read  on  in  his  clear,  full  voice,  but  long 
before  he  was  half-way  through  there  were  a  hundred 
more  copies  of  the  Times  inside  the  senate-chamber, 
and  many  people  were  quietly  reading  for  themselves. 
Guthrie's  name  in  full  was  signed  to  the  despatch,  and 
people  began  to  whisper  to  each  other:  "He  did  it 
alone!"  "What  a  debt  Carton  owes  to  him!"  "And 
what  a  debt  the  State  owes  him,  too!"  But  the  look 
upon  Mary  Pelham's  face  was  one  that  Clarice  will 
always  remember;  she  seemed  suddenly  to  be  released 
from  some  great  strain  like  unto  the  fear  of  death.  A 
devout  thankfulness  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  the  coun- 
tenance, ordinarily  so  cold  and  fixed,  smiled  as  a  young 
girl's  should.  Once  her  eyes  and  those  of  Carton  met, 
and  a  single  swift  lightning  glance  that  only  Jimmy 
Warfield  saw  passed  between  them;  it  told  of  moun- 
tains that  had  been  rolled  away;  but  after  that  the 
face  of  each  became  cold. 

The  reading  went  on,  and  the  crowd  listened,  ab- 
sorbed. Mr.  Pursley,  by  and  by,  quietly  left  the  senate- 
chamber.  In  the  lobbies,  they  still  whispered  Guthrie's 
name  admiringly,  but  Mrs.  Ransorae  looked  scornful. 
"I  do  not  see  what  is  so  wonderful  in  it!"  she  said. 
"Anybody  could  have  gone  to  New  York,  and  could 
have  done  the  same  thing." 

Then  Lucy  Hastings  turned,  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"But  nobody  else  went,"  she  said  shortly. 

Mrs.  Ransome  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  It  was 
not  her  purpose  to  arouse  antagonisms. 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  227 

Jimmy  Warfield  presently  went  over  to  Carton,  and 
whispered: 

"Phil,  you  owe  Billy  Guthrie  a  debt  you  can  never 
pay!" 

"I  know  it,  Jimmy." 

'It  was  a  close  shave;  three  hours  more,  and  they 
would  have  taken  a  vote  expelling  you  by  a  majority  of 
two— my  figures  are  right— and,  no  matter  if  you  had 
been  proved  innocent  later  on,  that  vote  of  expulsion 
would  have  ruined  you  forever." 

"I  know  it,  Jimmy,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  ex- 
pected to  be  expelled." 

Again  the  Senate  relapsed  into  intense  silence,  save 
for  the  deep  voice  of  the  Clerk,  and  now  and  then  a 
sigh  of  relief  that  ran  through  the  lobbies.  Suddenly, 
the  people  discovered  that  their  sympathies  were  with 
Carton.  How  handsome  and  heroic  he  looked!  How 
little  he  had  complained!  And  nothing  thrills  the 
popular  heart  more  than  a  youth  on  the  edge  of  con- 
viction suddenly  found  innocent.  Even  old  General 
Pelham  melted,  and,  leaning  over  his  daughter,  he 
whispered,  "Mary,  I  thank  God  for  this  day!"  She 
said  nothing,  but  put  her  hand  for  a  moment  in  her 
mother's. 

The  Clerk  finished  at  last,  and  the  case  lay  plain 
before  them  all.  There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation, 
and  then  Senator  Cobb  rose  to  his  feet  again,  his  face 
full  of  purpose. 

"Fellow  senators,"  he  said,  "the  document  that  has 
just  been  read  to  us  is  not  a  legal  exhibit  in  this  case. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  testimony  of  the  most  vital  and  com- 
pelling nature.  All  of  us  know  the  writer  of  that  arti- 
cle, and  all  of  us  know  his  high  character,  his  absolute 


228  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

truthfulness  and  honesty.  Until  I  heard  the  reading 
of  the  despatch,  I  was  convinced  that  Mr.  Carton  had 
improperly  used  his  office  as  Speaker  of  the  House,  and, 
therefore,  deserved  impeachment;  now  I  know  that 
he  did  what  he  did  for  the  public  good,  and  that  he  is 
a  hero  and  almost  a  martyr.  I  shall  vote  for  him,  and 
I  ask  that  the  vote  on  the  impeachment  proceed- 
ings be  taken  at  once." 

"I  second  the  motion,"  exclaimed  Senator  Pike. 

"All  who  are  in  favour  of  taking  the  vote  now  will 
please  say  'Aye,'"  said  the  Lieutenant-Governor. 

There  was  a  roar  of  "Ayes!" 

"All  who  are  against  it  say  'No.'" 

There  was  not  a  "no." 

"This  is  hurrying  things  with  a  vengeance,"  mur- 
mured Jimmy  Warfield,  but  he  had  no  complaint  to 
make. 

"Oh!  why  are  they  going  to  take  a  vote  now?" 
exclaimed  Clarice.  "It  seems  so  unjust  after  Mr. 
Guthrie  has  cleared  Mr.  Carton!" 

"Hush!"  said  Lucy  Hastings.  "It  is  right!  You 
will  see." 

"Call  the  roll,  Mr.  Clerk,"  said  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor,  and  the  Clerk  began  to  call  it,  name  by  name, 
the  presiding  officer  having  put  the  question  whether 
or  not  the  defendant  was  guilty. 

The  first  senator  voted  "no,"  loudly  and  clearly,  and 
there  was  a  murmur  of  applause,  quickly  checked  by 
the  pounding  of  the  gavel.  But,  as  the  "noes"  still 
came  in  an  unbroken  line,  the  applause  rose  again,  and 
the  gavel  could  not  suppress  it.  It  swelled  into  a  roar, 
and,  when  the  name  of  the  last  senator  was  called,  every 
one  had  voted  "not  guilty."  Then, in  one  final  burst 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  229 

the  applause  died  away,  and  the  Lieutenant-Governor 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Senate,"  he  said,  "you  have 
voted  unanimously  for  the  acquittal  of  the  defendant, 
the  Speaker  of  the  House,  and  never  was  there  a 
more  righteous  verdict.  Mr.  Carton,  I  congratulate 
you." 

It  is  on  record  that  the  Senate  of  the  State  once  ad- 
journed without  a  motion  to  that  effect  being  made, 
and  this  was  the  day.  Such  a  proceeding  was  irregular 
and  unconstitutional,  but  nobody  ever  questioned  it, 
because  the  Lieutenant-Governor  stepped  down  from 
his  dais  to  congratulate  the  Speaker,  and  the  great 
assemblage  rising,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  followed  the 
Lieutenant-Governor. 

Mr.  Carton  found  himself  the  centre  of  a  crowd  that 
showered  praises  upon  him  and  shook  his  hand  until 
he  lost  his  cold  reserve  and  dignity,  and  became  em- 
barrassed. But  Jimmy  Warfield,  standing  in  an  aisle 
with  Clarice  Ransome,  and  looking  on  said  in  a  low 
voice, 

"I  am  glad  through  and  through,  Miss  Ransome, 
but,  after  all,  this  final  scene  is  like  an  oft-quoted  one; 
it  is  the  play  of  Hamlet  with  Hamlet  left  out" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Warfield?"  she  asked. 

"It's  Guthrie's  achievement,  and  not  Carton's:  he 
should  be  here." 

"Yes,  it  is  his,"  she  said  proudly,  and  then  she  added 
the  question:  "Is  he  to  get  no  credit?" 

"Credit,  yes;  substantial  reward,  none  that  I  know. 
Carton  would  pay  him  if  he  could,  but  he  cannot" 

Her  heart  was  full  of  indignant  rebellion.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  Guthrie  was  always  serving  others  and  never 


230  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

doing  anything  for  himself.  Even  with  the  climax  of 
his  great  achievement  at  hand,  and  the  applauding 
crowd  about  the  acquitted,  he  was  away,  and  Carton 
held  the  centre  of  the  stage.  It  had  been  the  same 
way  in  another  great  case:  he  had  saved  Senator  Pike 
from  himself,  off  there  in  the  mountains,  but  the  Sena- 
tor had  returned  alone  and  received  the  plaudits,  while 
Guthrie  was  elsewhere. 

It  seemed  to  her  a  great  injustice,  but  she  said  noth- 
ing, and,  when  the  crowd  thinned  somewhat,  she  too 
gave  him  her  sincere  congratulations.  If  she  had  felt 
any  little  bitterness  against  Carton  for  being  the  chief 
figure,  it  disappeared  wholly  when  she  saw  Mary 
Pelham's  face. 

At  last  everybody  was  gone,  save  those  who  con- 
stituted the  almost  family  group  known  as  "the  Gov- 
ernor's set."  By  and  by,  they  too  went,  laughing  and 
talking  joyously,  Carton  in  the  centre.  Clarice  alone 
was  silent.  Somehow  she  felt  that  much  was  missing, 
but  again  she  was  afraid  to  analyse  her  own  feelings. 

It  was  several  weeks  later,  and  Guthrie  and  Clarice 
drove  once  more  along  the  river  road.  Spring  was  at 
hand,  all  the  circle  of  hills  about  the  capital  glowed  in 
tender  green,  and  the  south  wind  called  to  the  open. 

Guthrie  had  returned  to  the  capital  very  quietly 
two  or  three  days  after  the  arrival  of  the  Times  con- 
taining his  great  news.  He  came  in  at  midnight,  and 
appeared  modestly  the  next  morning  at  his  accustomed 
desk.  There  was  sudden  applause  in  the  House  that 
made  him  blush  in  embarrassment,  and,  after  the  recep- 
tion, the  members  compelled  him  to  be  the  central  fig- 
ure at  a  sort  of  informal  levee;  but  he  was  glad  to 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  231 

escape  from  it  all,  and  did  so  as  soon  as  he  could  with- 
out being  rude. 

Carton  said  nothing  then,  but  afterward,  when  they 
were  alone,  he  gave  Guthrie  the  sincere  hand-clasp 
that  tells  of  a  friendship  never  to  be  destroyed,  and 
almost  repeated  Jimmy  Warfield's  words,  "Billy, 
I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  pay  you!"  "Oh,  non- 
sense, Carton!"  said  Guthrie,  "It  was  news  that  I  was 
after."  But  Carton  knew  better. 

The  Speaker  had  come  out  of  his  ordeal  with  in- 
creased prestige.  He  was  at  once  a  hero  and  a  martyr, 
and  it  gave  him  a  glamour  that  endeared  him  to  the 
people.  The  nomination  for  Congress  in  his  district, 
one  of  the  most  famous  in  the  State,  was  now  offered 
to  him  without  opposition,  and,  as  it  was  heavily 
Democratic,  he  was  as  good  as  elected,  although 
the  election  was  more  than  six  months  away.  Jimmy 
Warfield,  whose  legislative  district  belonged  to  him 
in  fee  simple,  as  the  people  jokingly  but  truly  said, 
would  succeed  Carton  in  the  next  Legislature  as  Speaker 
of  the  House.  Senator  Pike's  action,  and  the  talk 
about  it  in  the  press,  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
Republican  president,  who  was  about  to  appoint  him 
to  the  important  office  of  Pension  Commissioner  for  the 
State.  The  Governor's  staunch  support  of  Carton, 
at  a  time  when  such  support  was  unpopular,  had  made 
him — already  strong — yet  stronger  with  the  people, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  a  great  career  lay  before  him. 

Everybody  but  Guthrie  was  receiving  rewards,  and 
now  Clarice,  as  she  drove  with  him  on  the  river  road, 
felt  bitterness  for  his  sake.  He  had  done  it  all ;  it  was 
his  mind  and  courage  that  had  won  all  these  triumphs, 
and  the  one  who  alone  had  earned  the  great  reward 


232  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

remained  unpaid.  But  she  could  not  see  that  Guthrie 
was  conscious  of  it.  He  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  was  now  looking  forward  to  new  work  in  his  chosen 
profession.  The  Legislature  would  adjourn  in  a  few 
days,  and  he  would  immediately  plunge  into  a  hot 
congressional  fight  in  his  home  city,  where  the  Hon- 
ourable Henry  Clay  Warner  was  seeking  renomina- 
tion,  with  powerful  forces  opposing  him. 

Guthrie  pointed  with  his  whip  to  some  lumber  rafts 
on  the  river,  now  swollen  and  yellow  with  the  floods 
from  the  mountains. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  time  in  the  winter  when  we 
saw  Senator  Pike  board  one  of  those  rafts?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  could  not  forget  it;  his  actions  and  those 
of  the  other  men  seemed  so  strange." 

"Those  men  belonged  to  the  feudists.  I  did  not 
know  it  then,  but  at  that  time  the  affairs  of  the  Pikes 
and  the  Dilgers  were  coming  to  a  head.  We  had  a 
despatch  yesterday  from  Briarton  saying  that  Pete 
Dilger  was  duly  hanged  the  day  before,  by  law,  in  the 
presence  of  ten  thousand  people,  gathered  from  all 
parts  of  the  mountains.  I  hope  that  it  will  be  a  good 
example,  because,  if  ever  a  man  deserved  hanging,  it 
was  he,  and  it  may  induce  the  mountaineers  hereafter 
to  let  the  law  takes  its  course,  and  not  resort  to  personal 
revenge.  At  least,  it  may  help." 

"That  must  have  been  an  alarming  experience  of 
yours  in  the  mountains,"  she  said. 

"I  did  not  have  time  to  think  of  fear,"  he  replied, 
"but  it  was  certainly  interesting.  I  look  back  upon 
it  as  very  vivid,  and,  when  I  had  lived  a  while  with  those 
mountaineers,  I  really  liked  them.  Then*  faults  are 
those  of  circumstances  and  environment." 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  233 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said. 

Guthrie  spoke  presently  of  Carton  and  Mary  Pelham. 

"They  love  each  other,  and  they  ought  to  admit  it 
now,"  he  said.  "I  wish  them  happiness;  they  would 
make  a  fine  couple." 

"Yes,"  she  said, "it  should  be  arranged,  though 
there  is  yet  constraint.  General  Pelham  would  withdraw 
his  objections;  Mrs.  Pelham  always  favoured  Mr.  Car- 
ton; Mary,  too,  was  confident  of  his  innocence,  and  the 
coldness  between  them  arose  because  he  would  not  see 
that  she  loved  him  still,  and  believed  in  him  as  much  as 
ever,  despite  all  the  things  that  were  said  against  him, 
and  despite  appearances.  That  is  what  hurt  her." 

"  Well,  they  are  over  the  roughest  places  now,"  said 
Guthrie  joyously,  "and,  after  all,  though  it  is  a  bitter 
experience,  it  will  help  Carton  politically  Every- 
thing has  turned  out  so  well." 

"Yes,"  she  said  boldly,  "for  Mr.  Carton,  and  Mr. 
Warfield,  and  Mr.  Pike,  but  it  was  you  that  did  it;  it 
was  you,  Mr.  Guthrie,  who  saved  them  all,  and  what 
do  you  get?" 

"Come  now,  you  are  making  sport  of  me!"  he  said 
seriously.  "My  part  was  mere  chance;  I  was  after 
news,  you  know." 

"But  what  reward  do  you  get?"  she  persisted. 

"  All  that  I  am  entitled  to,  I  suppose.  I  have  another 
most  interesting  campaign  just  ahead.  I  enjoy  these 
political  fights — they  whip  one's  blood  like  a  spring 
wind.  You've  seen  Warner  here,  the  Honourable 
Henry  Clay  Warner,  the  member  in  the  Lower  House 
of  Congress  from  my  district,  the  Fourth — the  heavy, 
red-faced  man.  He  has  proved  to  be  a  rank  dema- 
gogue, and  dissipated  to  boot.  He  gave  good  promise 


234  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

once;  I  went  with  him  for  the  Times  through  his  first 
campaign,  two  years  ago,  and  we  helped  him  a  lot; 
we  thought  that  he  would  be  a  credit  to  the  old  Fourth, 
but  he  has  turned  out  badly;  now  he  wants  a  renomi- 
nation,  and  he  has  back  of  him  a  crowd  to  which  his 
demagogy  appeals;  there  are  two  other  Democratic 
candidates  in  the  field,  and  it  looks  like  a  bitter  fac- 
tional fight,  ending,  maybe,  in  a  Republican  triumph." 

"And  they  expect  you  to  help  in  it  politically,  besides 
describing  this  campaign?"  she  said. 

"I  may  have  a  little  influence  with  Warner,"  he  re- 
plied with  a  smile.  Then  he  added,  "You,  too,  are 
going  back  to  the  city  now,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  go  when  the  Legislature  adjourns; 
mother  returned  two  weeks  ago,  and  she  wanted  me  to 
go  with  her,  but  I  preferred  to  stay  until  the  end.  Lucy 
Hastings  and  Mary  Pelham  both  will  visit  me  in  the 
city  in  a  few  weeks." 

"And  you  will  have  another  visitor,"  said  Guthrie. 
"The  count  who  is  coming  to  claim  you — it  is  no  secret 
here;  Mrs.  Ransome  often  spoke  of  it,  or  I  should  not 
allude  to  it  now.  This  country  does  not  like  to  lose 
you." 

He  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  tone  in  his  voice 
that  she  had  never  heard  before;  it  thrilled  her,  and 
she  turned  her  face  away  to  hide  the  red  that  flushed  it. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Raoul  d'Estournelle —  that  is  no  news  to  you — and 
he  said  last  year  that  he  would  come  in  the  spring." 

Her  face  was  still  turned  away.  She  was  gazing 
absently  over  the  far  hills,  and  she  did  not  know  that 
Guthrie  was  looking  at  her,  his  expression  one  of 
mingled  sadness  and  admiration.  He  was  thinking 


GUTHRIE'S  DESPATCH  235 

that,  if  there  were  not  so  many  "  ifs  "  in  the  way— if  she 
had  not  met  d'Estournelle,  if  she  had  not  become  en- 
gaged to  him,  if  she  were  not  a  rich  man's  daughter, 
if  he,  William  Guthrie,  were  not  poor  with  the  prospect 
of  remaining  poor— then  he,  too,  might  have  tempted 
his  fortune — and  lost;  as  it  was,  he  must  lose  before 
the  battle. 

He  struck  the  horses  impatiently,  and  they  trotted 
swiftly  along  the  white  road.  It  was  a  picturesque 
drive,  but  never  had  it  seemed  finer  to  Guthrie  than  on 
that  day.  The  green  of  spring  was  everywhere,  and  a 
haze  like  that  of  Indian  summer  was  over  the  hills. 
Neither  spoke  until  the  capital  was  four  or  five  miles 
farther  behind  them. 

"  I  suppose  that  in  a  year  or  so  you  will  leave  America, 
to  stay?"  said  Guthrie  at  last. 

"I  do  not  know,  but  if  I  do,  this  country  neverthe- 
less will  always  be  my  own.  Oh,  I  hate  to  leave  itl 
I  am  just  learning  to  love  it  as  it  should  be  loved  1" 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  angry  pathos,  and  Guthrie 
looked  around,  surprised  at  the  new  note  in  her  voice. 
He  seemed  to  draw  from  it  a  singular  kind  of  courage, 
and,  throughout  the  rest  of  the  drive,  he  was  gayer  and 
brighter  in  manner  than  Clarice  had  ever  known  him 
to  be  before. 


CHAPTER  XV 
TEMPTATION 

IT  was  said  by  many  in  the  capital  in  the  remaining 
days  of  the  session  that  Guthrie  seemed  to  feel  no  ela- 
tion over  his  remarkable  victory  with  which  the  whole 
State  was  ringing,  and  these  critics  were  not  lacking 
in  acuteness,  for  they  were  right.  After  the  first  flush 
of  his  triumph  was  gone,  he  felt  a  double  sense  of  in- 
completion  and  loneliness.  Carton  and  Mary  Pelham 
still  held  aloof  from  each  other.  The  Speaker  had 
received  a  brilliant  vindication,  but  he  was  as  far  as  ever 
from  the  girl  he  loved.  Guthrie  knew  that  Carton 
resented  her  apparent  lack  of  faith  in  him  when  he 
was  not  favoured  by  appearances,  and,  though  he  had 
been  able  to  set  the  Speaker  right  in  public  life,  he  did 
not  know  how  to  help  him  in  love;  in  that  respect,  his 
work  was  not  finished. 

His  sense  of  loneliness — a  feeling  that  had  never  come 
to  him  before,  and  he  wondered  at  it — arose  from  his 
own  position.  He  realised  that  he  was  in  a  way  a 
maker  of  reputations  for  many,  but  not  for  himself. 
Others,  and  it  was  he  who  had  made  it  possible,  were 
having  their  triumphs,  but  he  remained  the  same.  He 
began  to  feel  discontent.  He  moved  uneasily  in  his 
environment,  and  he  was  galled  by  the  circumstances 
that  made  him  what  he  was.  Had  he  subjected  him- 
self to  a  keen  analysis,  he  might  have  found  that  this 

236 


TEMPTATION  237 

chafing  was  due  to  the  quiet  words  of  a  girl,  spoken 
apparently  with  little  intent. 

It  was  to  suppress  such  feelings  as  these  that  he 
plunged  into  his  work  with  renewed  zeal  and  energy, 
and  his  despatches  gained  in  force  and  brilliancy. 
But  his  sense  of  mental  isolation  did  not  depart,  and 
he  tried  to  seclude  himself,  keeping  away  from  the 
Governor's  house,  in  order  to  weaken  an  attraction 
which  he  felt  that  he  must  resist.  Mr.  Hastings  was 
surprised,  and,  meeting  Guthrie  in  the  corridors  of  the 
Capitol,  he  asked: 

"  Billy,  why  have  you  cut  us  all  ?  Lucy  was  speak- 
ing to-day  of  your  desertion.  Have  you  grown  so 
great  now  that  you  prefer  lonely  grandeur?" 

Guthrie,  embarrassed,  said  something  about  the 
pressure  of  work,  but  the  young  Governor  would  admit 
no  such  excuse. 

"That  won't  do,  Billy,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Your 
great  pressure  here  is  over,  and  you  know  it,  and  you 
know  that  I  know  it.  We  want  you.  Miss  Pelham 
is  still  with  us,  and  " — here  his  voice  lingered  a  moment 
— "and  Miss  Ransome,  too." 

Despite  himself,  a  flush  came  into  Guthrie's  cheeks, 
and  then,  because  he  was  conscious  of  it,  he  flushed  all 
the  more.  But  the  observant  Governor  pretended  not 
to  notice,  and  Guthrie,  thinking  that  he  did  not,  was 
in  a  moment  himself  again. 

"I  thought  that  Miss  Ransome  was  to  return  to  the 
city  in  a  day  or  two,"  he  said,  in  assumed  carelessness. 
"Is  she  not  to  marry  shortly  that  Belgian  count— or 
is  it  a  Frenchman?" 

"I  never  consider  marriages  of  that  kind  sure  until 
they  occur,"  replied  the  Governor  in  the  same  careless 


238  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

tone,  and  he  added  nothing  to  this  off-hand  statement, 
save  another  warm  invitation  to  come  to  his  house. 
Being  a  married  man,  the  Governor  knew  when  he  had 
said  enough  about  an  affair  of  the  heart  to  the  one 
concerned — a  virtue  that  men  never  learn  until  their 
wives  teach  it  to  them. 

When  the  Governor  went  home,  he  sought  advice 
from  Lucy  on  a  case  that  he  thought  important,  and 
she  was  not  loath  to  give  it.  She  helped,  too,  to  such 
purpose  that  the  next  day  she  appeared  with  her  group 
in  the  lobby  of  the  House,  and  they  were  all  in  raiment 
fresh  and  wonderful  to  see.  Lucy  Hastings  was  a 
beautiful  woman,  and  so  was  Mary  Pelham,  but  it  was 
quite  the  verdict  of  the  House — and  it  contained  many 
men  no  mean  judges  in  such  matters — that  Clarice 
Ransome  was  the  most  beautiful  of  the  three.  It  was 
not  alone  the  loveliness  of  face  and  figure,  but  it  was 
something  in  the  expression,  its  frankness,  the  direct 
gaze  of  the  eyes,  that  gave  to  mere  physical  beauty  the 
added  and  finer  touch  that  was  of  the  mind  and  spirit. 
Men,  beholding  her,  involuntarily  said  to  themselves: 
"Here  is  a  woman  whom  one  could  trust,  one  who 
would  be  strongest  of  all  in  evil  days,  one  who  would 
cling  through  all  things  to  the  man  she  loves." 

But  to-day  she  looked  very  young  and  slender — only 
a  girl  with  a  rose  upon  her  breast,  and  a  slight  touch  of 
sadness  in  her  eyes.  Yet  it  was  spring.  Winter  was 
completely  routed,  and,  from  all  the  windows,  the  won- 
derful, tender  green  of  the  circling  hills  was  visible. 
There  was  a  breath  of  new  roses  in  the  air,  and  few 
noticed  the  touch  of  sadness  in  Clarice  Ransome's  eyes. 

Guthrie,  looking  up  from  his  desk,  thought  her  more 
lovely  than  ever,  now  that  he  believed  she  was  not  for 


TEMPTATION  239 

him,  and  had  never  been  for  him.  It  was  a  democratic 
country,  but  he  was  not  willing  to  be  considered  a 
fortune-hunter,  nor  to  seek  what  was  promised  already 
to  another  man.  So  he  steeled  his  heart,  turned  his 
eyes  back  to  his  desk,  and  resolved  not  to  look  again  at 
the  tempting  balcony.  But  there  was  a  power  greater 
than  his  will,  and  presently  he  glanced  up  once  more. 
Then  Lucy  Hastings  eyes  caught  his,  and  she  beckoned 
to  him  so  imperiously  to  come  that  he  could  not  refuse 
and  remain  a  gentleman.  He  folded  up  his  notes — 
it  was  a  dull  day,  occupied  with  little  local  bills — and 
walking  down  the  aisle  joined  the  Governor's  group. 

Lucy  Hastings  was  censorious,  she  complained  of 
his  lack  of  attention,  she  said  that  she  had  depended 
upon  him  to  help  her  in  the  dying  season  at  the  capital, 
and  now  he  was  failing  her  woefully.  She  said  that  she 
had  missed  him,  but  she  did  not  say  that  any  one  else 
had  missed  him,  too,  and  she  was  so  adroit  that  Clarice 
Ransome  herself  did  not  suspect  any  hidden  motive. 
At  last,  after  proving  to  the  humble  Guthrie  how  badly 
he  had  behaved,  she  demanded  that  he  go  with  them  on 
a  woodland  excursion  that  she  had  arranged  for  three 
days  later,  and  he  did  not  have  the  courage  to  refuse. 

Nor  did  she  make  him  sit  just  then  by  Clarice  Ran- 
some, but  it  was  to  Mary  Pelham  that  she  assigned  him. 
The  dull  business  of  the  session  droned  on,  and  there 
was  no  excuse  for  Guthrie  to  go.  He  saw  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  that  Clarice  Ransome  was  looking 
over  the  floor  of  the  House,  as  if  she  sought  friends 
there,  and,  on  his  part,  he  pretended  to  a  deep  interest 
in  Miss  Pelham.  Nor  was  this  all  assumption.  He 
gave  much  admiration  to  Mary  Pelhara,  although  he 
thought  her  a  little  too  cold  and  a  little  too  haughty, 


240  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

at  least  in  manner,  which  was  particularly  unfortunate, 
because  Carton  had  the  same  faults.  But  to  Guthrie, 
from  some  cause,  which  he  believed  he  could  guess, 
she  relaxed,  and  when  he  told  her,  half  at  her  own  sug- 
gestion, of  the  events  in  the  mountains  and  New  York, 
she  listened  with  an  interest  that  he  knew  to  be  vivid  and 
real.  But  he  shrewdly  judged  that  this  eagerness  to 
hear  was  less  for  him  than  for  the  one  on  whose  account 
the  journeys  had  been  made.  Guthrie,  as  he  talked, 
saw  the  red  deepen  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  sparkle, 
and  he  felt  sure  that  Carton  still  had  her  heart.  But 
the  old  sense  of  helplessness  returned  to  him.  He 
might  manage  some  affairs,  but  such  as  these  were  be- 
yond his  ken.  At  last, he  said: 

"Mr.  Carton,  so  far  as  public  life  is  concerned,  will 
profit  by  his  ordeal.  To  the  people,  he  appears  in  more 
brilliant  colours  than  ever,  after  the  lifting  of  the  un- 
just cloud." 

"He  is  a  fortunate  man,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps,  but  I  do  not  think  that  he  is  a  happy  one." 

Guthrie,  observant,  saw  a  sudden  light  in  her  eyes, 
as  if  she  had  heard  something  that  pleased  her,  but  her 
tone  was  unchanged  when  she  asked: 

"Why?    What  more  can  he  want?" 

Guthrie  was  too  wise  to  reply.  He  merely  shook 
his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  sure  he  is  un- 
happy. I  suppose  that  like  most  of  us  he  wants  very 
much  something  that  he  cannot  get." 

Carton  himself  had  received  the  imperious  mandate 
of  Lucy  Hastings,  conveyed  in  a  simple  gesture  of  her 
hand,  and  he,  too,  obeyed.  Calling  another  member 
to  the  chair,  he  entered  the  lobby,  and  joined  the  little 


TEMPTATION  241 

group  of  ladies.  He  bowed  courteously  to  Mary 
Pelham,  and  then  devoted  himself  to  Lucy  Hastings 
and  Clarice  Ransome.  But,  in  spite  of  themselves,  in 
spite  of  Lucy  Hastings'  best  efforts,  a  certain  constraint 
settled  over  them  all,  and  it  was  not  broken  until  Sena- 
tor Pike,  as  grave  as  ever,  but  with  a  milder  light  in 
his  eyes,  came  to  their  help.  His  very  absence  of  social 
guile,  his  infinite  capacity  for  speaking  of  things  just 
as  they  were,  relieved  them.  Soon  they  were  all  gath- 
ered about  him,  and  then  there  was  a  readjustment  of 
the  circle.  Guthrie  now  found  himself  by  the  side  of 
Clarice  Ransome. 

In  this  changed  condition,  Guthrie  felt  his  old  sense  of 
uneasiness  return.  There  was  something  about  Clarice 
that  always  drew  him  on.  He  had  ceased  to  doubt  his 
feeling  for  her,  he  knew  that  it  was  love,  and  he  was 
afraid  of  himself.  To-day  that  little  touch  of  sadness 
made  her  infinitely  winning. 

"I  heard  Lucy  asking  you  to  come  with  us  Saturday," 
she  said,  "but  I  do  not  know  what  your  answer  was.  I 
hope  that  you  are  coming,  Mr.  Guthrie.  We  feel  that 
you  have  quite  abandoned  us  since  your  triumphal 
return." 

"Count  on  me,"  said  Guthrie  lightly,  and  then  he 
added  with  real  earnestness: 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  of  my  triumphal  return. 
I  had  a  little  good  luck,  that  was  all,  and,  moreover,  my 
return  isn't  triumphal." 

She  glanced  at  him,  and,  when  she  saw  the  genuinely 
despondent  look  upon  his  face,  there  was  a  iittle  glow  in 
her  eyes.  She  had  intimated  to  him  by  the  river  that 
he  should  think,  not  less  of  others,  but  more  of  himself. 
These  words  may  have  left  their  mark. 


242  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

A  singular  spirit  now  animated  Clarice  Ransome. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  played  the  coquette — not 
the  heartless  coquette,  but  the  one  who  is  in  earnest,  and 
a  coquette,  too,  who  hid  all  her  arts  from  spectators. 
She  spoke  to  Guthrie  in  an  ordinary  voice,  but  there 
was  a  tone,  faint  though  it  was,  that  still  led  him  on.  A 
great  resolve  was  forming  in  her  mind,  and  never 
had  Guthrie  found  her  more  attractive,  more  brilliant. 
There  was  an  elusive  charm  that  he  could  not  grasp  or 
define,  and,  under  its  influence,  he  found  all  his  strength 
melting  away. 

When  Lucy  Hastings  went  home,  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band, 

"Mr.  Guthrie  will  come  with  us  Saturday,  and  I 
think  that  he  is  glad  to  come." 

Clarice  Ransome  went  to  her  room,  locked  the  door, 
and  took  from  a  trunk  a  photograph  at  which  she  looked 
long  and  carefully.  The  photograph  bore  the  name  of 
a  foreign  maker  in  the  corner,  and  the  face  was  that  of  a 
young  man  whose  mustache  curled  beautifully.  Then 
she  shut  her  eyes,  and  her  mind  produced  another  face 
that  was  wholly  different,  and  she  seemed  to  like  it, 
because  she  smiled.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes  again, 
and  looked  at  the  photograph  with  a  distinct  aversion 
which,  perhaps,  was  not  fair  to  the  young  man  with  the 
beautifully  pointed  mustache  and  the  beautifully  curled 
hair.  At  length,  with  impatient  movements,  she  thrust 
the  photograph  into  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  heaped 
other  things  on  top  of  it,  and  with  a  jerk  locked  the 
trunk. 

About  the  same  time,  unusual  things  were  happening 
to  Guthrie.  When  he  left  the  Capitol,  his  recent  feeling 
of  despondency  returned  to  him  with  greater  force  than 


TEMPTATION  243 

ever.  He  had  yielded  again  to  a  charm  that  he  had 
taken  a  silent  oath  to  resist;  he  had  revelled  in  the  sun- 
shine when  he  had  sworn  to  keep  to  the  shadow,  and  he 
did  not  like  the  proof  of  his  own  weakness. 

He  passed  through  the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  giving  and 
taking  the  usual  greetings,  and  entered  the  corridor  that 
led  to  his  room;  but  he  was  stopped  in  the  narrow  pas- 
sage by  a  small,  smoothly  shaved  man  dressed  in  gray — 
none  other  than  Mr.  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow,  now,  as 
always,  trim,  suave,  and  calm. 

Mr.  Harlow  held  out  his  hand,  but  Guthrie  hesitated. 
Mr.  Harlow,  still  calm  and  suave,  offered  his  hand 
again. 

"You  need  not  be  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  he 
said.  "It  was  not  I  who  made  you  the  offer  of  the 
money  in  the  trust  company  vault,  as  I  told  you  once 
before,  nor  did  I  advise  it.  In  fact,  I  fought  against  it 
strenuously.  It  was  Charlie  Warren  who  insisted  on 
the  truth  of  the  old  saying  that  every  man  has  his  price, 
and  he  has  found  out  his  mistake.  That  saying  is  very 
often  untrue,  Mr.  Guthrie,  I  assure  you,  and  I  have  had 
plenty  of  opportunities  to  know." 

"I  like  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Guthrie,  aimlessly, 
not  knowing  what  Mr.  Harlow  had  in  mind,  but  waiting 

to  see. 

"I  arrived  from  New  York  this  morning,"  resumed 
Mr.  Harlow,  "  and  my  chief  object  to-day  has  been  to 
meet  you.  I  wish  to  have  with  you  a  private  talk  of 
importance.  Your  room  or  mine  will  serve." 

"Come  to  my  room,"  said  Guthrie,  wondering  what 
the  lobbyist  could  have  to  say  to  him  now,  and,  despite 
himself,  feeling  a  sort  of  liking  for  this  smooth,  resource- 
ful man.  He  gave  Mr.  Harlow  a  seat  by  the  window, 


244  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

and  took  another  chair  near-by  where  he  waited,  ex- 
pectant. 

"A  fine  view  of  the  river  and  the  hills,"  said  Mr.  Har- 
low.  "The  first  green  of  spring  is  something  wonder- 
fully tender  and  beautiful." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Guthrie  dryly. 

"Which  is  not  business,"  continued  Mr.  Harlow  with 
a  laugh,  "but  I  come  to  it  at  once.  In  short,  Mr.  War- 
ren has  gone  out  of  the  New  York  firm  that  I  represent. 
There  was  trouble  over  the  exposure  in  the  Times,  and 
the  older  members  concluded  that  perhaps  Mr.  Warren 
was  a  trifle  too  smart;  in  fact,  that  he  was  ultra-modern 
in  his  methods.  Their  prestige  has  been  lowered  by 
this  affair,  their  credit  damaged,  and  their  business 
injured.  So  it  was  thought  best  that  they  and  Mr. 
Warren  should  part.  Now  they  are  going  to  be  more 
conservative  in  their  methods;  that  is,  they  are  going  to 
eschew  what  I  may  call  the  risque." 

"But  how  does  this  concern  me?"  asked  Guthrie. 

"It  concerns  you  very  greatly — if  you  are  willing  that 
it  should  do  so.  We  want  a  brisk,  active  young  man — 
one  whom  people  will  involuntarily  trust,  to  represent 
us  in  various  important  quarters.  He  is  to  be  thoroughly 
honest;  he  will  not  be  called  upon  to  do  anything  that 
goes  against  the  grain." 

"This  has  to  do  with  money?" 

"Yes,  and  in  large  amounts.  Would  you  mind  telling 
me,  Mr.  Guthrie,  what  salary  you  get  ?  " 

Guthrie  named  a  modest  sum. 

"We  are  prepared  to  pay  you  three  times  as  much  to 
begin  with  and  to  give  you  a  three  years'  contract. 
After  that,  if  you  develop,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  you  will,  you  would  be  worth  more.  You 


TEMPTATION  245 

could  almost  name  your  own  price.  What  do  you  say, 
Mr.  Guthrie  ?  I  cannot  recall  when  such  another  offer 
was  made  to  a  man  of  your  youth." 

"I  am  surprised,"  said  Guthrie,  "that  your  people 
should  want  me.  I  did  not  consider  their  feelings  when 
I  spoke  to  them." 

"In  high  finance,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  feelings." 

Guthrie  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  The  offer  was 
a  surprise,  a  great  surprise.  Until  recently,  he  had  not 
felt  the  need  of  money,  of  a  much  larger  income.  He 
was  so  deeply  engrossed  in  his  work,  and  his  wants  had 
always  been  so  modest,  that  the  question  of  salary  was 
seldom  in  his  mind.  But  now  a  new  motive  had  entered, 
and  it  was  far  from  being  a  sordid  one. 

The  pay  offered  by  the  New  York  firm  was  large, 
very  large.  Perhaps  not  half  a  dozen  men  in  his  State 
were  receiving  such  a  salary;  it  was  certainly  more  than 
the  Governor's,  and,  with  such  an  income,  certain  bar- 
riers that  had  seemed  impassable  would  disappear. 
He  could  see  again  a  wistful,  lovely  face,  and  Guthrie 
was  sorely  tempted.  He  would  enter  the  lists  fairly 
against  that  other  man  in  Europe,  and  he  suddenly 
realised  that  he  did  not  now  and  never  had  feared  him. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Guthrie?" 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  from  afar  off,  and  Guthrie 
did  not  yet  answer. 

The  face  of  Clarice  Ransome,  the  wistful  eyes  with  the 
little  touch  of  sadness,  lured  him  on,  and,  for  a  moment, 
he  felt  a  thrill  of  exultation ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment, 
— then  he  saw  the  other  side ;  this  was  not  work  for  which 
he  cared,  he  did  not  even  feel  a  remote  interest  in  it,  and 
he  could  not;  there  were  only  two  things  in  which  he 
was  deeply  interested — journalism,  with  its  literary 


246  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

fringe,  and  public  life — and  he  had  sufficient  knowledge 
of  himself  now  to  know  that  he  could  never  change. 

And,  besides  the  work,  there  was  the  question  of  what 
it  would  lead  to.  Mr.  Harlow  had  promised  that  he 
should  have  nothing  of  a  shady  nature  to  do;  but  that 
promise — even  if  it  were  made  in  good  faith — could  it 
be  kept?  "High  Finance"  was  an  expansive  term. 
There  was  great  width  between  top  and  bottom,  and 
within  its  ample  spaces  were  bred  many  forms  of  activ- 
ity. Guthrie  was  convinced — in  fact,  he  knew — that  the 
promise  could  not  be  kept,  although  he  did  not  question 
Mr.  Harlow's  good  faith.  The  pressure  of  circum- 
stance and  the  fierce  competition  of  others  in  "High 
Finance"  would  be  too  great. 

The  face  of  Clarice  Ransome  was  still  before  him. 
Guthrie's  young  soul  was  pure,  and  in  it  womanhood 
was  enshrined,  with  Clarice  as  the  concrete  embodiment. 
He  longed  to  enter  the  combat  for  her,  but,  if  the  victory 
were  won,  he  must  come  to  her  with  it  fairly  won.  She 
would  be  the  last  to  approve  of  shady  methods,  he  must 
lose  her  respect  as  well  as  his  own,  and,  purely  and 
deeply  as  he  loved  her,  he  did  not  wish  to  win  her  unless 
he  could  win  her  worthily.  No;  the  obstacles  were  still 
there,  the  barriers  had  not  melted  away. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  they  had  not  been  closed  more 
than  twenty  seconds,  so  rapid  was  the  passage  of  his 
thoughts,  and  he  still  heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Harlow, 
coming  from  far  away  like  an  echo: 

"Well,  Mr.  Guthrie,  what  is  your  answer?" 

Guthrie  shook  his  head. 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Harlow,"  he  said;  "because  I 
think  it  is  through  your  influence  that  this  offer  has  been 
made  to  me,  but  I  cannot  accept  it.  I  am  not  fitted  for 


TEMPTATION  247 

the  work;  it  does  not  interest  me  at  all.  I  must  fight  it 
out  here  as  I  have  begun." 

A  shade  of  disappointment  passed  over  Mr.  Harlow's 
face. 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  have  come  to  this  conclusion," 
he  said;  "I  like  you,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  would  prove 
a  great  success.  I  think  that  you  are  standing  in  your 
own  light,  Mr.  Guthrie,  not  alone  financially,  but  in 
something  else  that  is  very  dear  to  you." 

He  looked  squarely  into  Guthrie's  eyes,  and  Guthrie 
knew  that  he  understood.  Nothing  in  the  little  capital 
ever  escaped  the  keen  eyes  of  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow. 
None  of  all  the  things  that  had  passed  so  quickly  in  the 
mind  of  the  young  correspondent  was  a  secret  to  him. 
Guthrie  flushed  and  then  he  added  quietly: 

"That  was  one  of  my  reasons  for  declining,  Mr.  Har- 
low." 

The  lobbyist  arose. 

"I  judge  from  your  tone,  Mr.  Guthrie,  that  this 
answer  is  final,"  he  said.  "You  have  shown  more  self- 
sacrifice  than  would  have  been  possible  for  me,  but,  at 
the  same  time,  I  can  understand  it  and  appreciate  it.  I 
should  like  to  shake  hands  with  you  before  I  go  to  the 
telegraph  office  to  send  my  answer." 

He  extended  his  hand  once  more,  and  Guthrie  shook 
it  heartily.  When  Mr.  Harlow  was  gone,  he  sat  by  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  circling  hills  now  gilded  by 
the  red  gold  of  the  setting  sun.  The  refusal  had  cost 
him  an  effort.  He  did  not  make  sacrifices  merely  as  a 
sort  of  personal  flattery  to  himself.  He  was  no  such 
prig  as  that.  Clarice  now  seemed  farther  away  than 
ever,  and  he  found  no  consolation  in  the  darkening  eve- 
ning. 


248  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

His  bell  rang,  and,  when  he  responded  "Come  in!" 
one  of  the  hotel  boys  entered  with  the  day's  mail,  and  laid 
it  on  the  table  beside  him.  There  were  half  a  dozen  let- 
ters, and  Guthrie  began  to  open  them  without  curiosity. 
The  fourth  was  rather  thick,  with  the  address  carefully 
typewritten.  Before  opening  it,  he  noticed  that  it  was 
postmarked  New  York,  and  this  aroused  some  interest. 
"Who  can  be  writing  to  me  from  New  York?"  he 
thought.  But,  when  he  began  to  read,  his  interest 
increased  rapidly. 

The  letter  was  from  the  proprietor  of  a  newspaper  in 
New  York,  widely  known  and  popularly  classed  under 
the  name  of  "yellow."  The  owner,  a  man  of  immense 
wealth,  had  recently  bought  this  paper,  and  was  spending 
millions  upon  it.  He  was  literally  buying  for  its  service 
men  whom  he  thought  valuable,  and  it  had  reached  the 
limits  in  sensationalism. 

It  was  the  owner  himself  who  was  now  writing  to 
Guthrie.  He  said  that  the  young  correspondent's  won- 
derful penetration,  will,  and  energy,  as  shown  in  the 
"United "  case,  had  been  brought  to  his  attention.  Nor 
had  his  informants  failed  to  tell  him  of  his  courage  and 
judgment  in  the  mountains  with  Senator  Pike.  It  was 
for  just  such  men  as  this  that  he  was  looking.  Men 
who  would  faithfully  do  routine  work  or  what  their 
predecessors  had  done  were  common — these  were  the 
ordinary  virtues;  but  men  who  could  think  for  them- 
selves, and,  having  thought,  dared  to  do  things  original 
and  striking  were  rare.  They  were  the  kind  that  he 
needed  in  his  work,  and  it  was  to  this  kind  that  he  was 
sure  Mr.  Guthrie  belonged.  Hence  he  sent  him  an 
offer  to  come  to  New  York  and  join  his  staff.  He 
named  the  salary,  which  was  a  thousand  a  year  above 


TEMPTATION  249 

that  of  Mr.  Harlow's  people,  and,  like  Mr.  Hariow,  he 
offered  a  three-year  contract.  He  held  forth,  too,  all 
the  promise  of  a  brilliant  future. 

It  was  a  typewritten  letter,  covering  several  pages, 
and,  when  Guthrie  had  read  it  all  through  carefully,  he 
went  back  and  read  it  all  again  with  equal  care.  There 
could  be  no  question  as  to  its  authenticity,  and,  even  as 
he  read,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door,  and  a  telegram  from 
the  owner  of  the  newspaper  was  delivered  to  him,  saying: 
"  Kindly  answer  my  letter  of  the  7th  inst.  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Waiting  for  you." 

Guthrie  felt  again  that  sudden  swell  of  triumph.  He 
was  young.  It  was  impossible  not  to  be  flattered  by 
these  great  and  unexpected  offers.  This  last  was  in  his 
own  profession.  It  was  merely  a  moving  forward. 
New  York  was  the  first  arena  of  modern  journalism, 
and  there  he  could  find  full  opportunity  for  the  exercise 
of  the  powers  that  he  felt  within  him.  Like  every  other 
American  youth  of  ambition,  his  mind  had  often  turned 
longingly  to  this  mighty  metropolis  of  all  the  States,  and 
now  the  opportunity  to  go  was  brought  to  him,  and  he 
was  almost  begged  to  take  it.  To  him  there  were  but 
two  great  theatres  of  action  on  the  Western  continent; 
one  was  Washington,  the  theatre  of  public  life,  and  the 
other  was  New  York,  the  theatre  of  all  the  talents. 

Guthrie  again  looked  out  of  the  window,  but  it  was 
dark  on  the  hills,  and  the  shadows  found  their  coun- 
terpart in  his  own  mind,  because  now,  as  in  the  first 
case,  the  picture  was  presenting  the  other  side.  And 
there  was  another  side. 

He  had  often  seen  the  newspaper  which  was  now 
making  him  so  munificent  an  offer — in  fact,  it  could 
escape  the  attention  of  few,  and  his  mind  revolted  at  its 


250  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

crude  pages.  In  his  opinion,  no  newspaper  could  be 
great  without  a  purpose,  without  convictions.  It  must 
have  beliefs,  real  and  sincere,  concerning  the  chief 
topics  of  the  day,  and  must  express  them  even  in  the  face 
of  the  majority  and  at  a  risk.  He  despised  an  editor  or 
an  owner  who  would  run  with  the  crowd,  merely  because 
it  was  the  crowd.  Vigilant  news-gathering  he  respected, 
but  he  did  not  believe  it  to  be  all;  beyond  lay  the  duty 
to  instruct,  to  teach,  to  lead  the  way,  to  stand  in  the  face 
of  all  things  for  what  the  owner  believed  to  be  the  right. 

Guthrie  could  see  no  proof  of  such  a  purpose  in  the 
newspaper  that  was  seeking  him.  No  stir  of  life  lighted 
up  its  arid  pages ;  its  sole  object  seemed  to  be  the  achieve- 
ment of  circulation;  its  owner  apparently  had  no  con- 
victions on  the  great  questions  of  the  day — perhaps  he 
did  not  know  that  they  existed. 

Could  he  do  himself  justice  there?  What  would  his 
work  be  ?  He  recalled  the  last  copy  of  the  newspaper 
that  he  had  seen,  and  he  could  not  remember  any  place 
in  it  for  what  he  had  to  give.  Yet  the  offer  was  most 
tempting.  Perhaps  the  owner  was  about  to  enter  new 
fields  of  journalistic  endeavour,  and,  having  it  in  mind, 
had  chosen  Guthrie  as  one  of  his  pilots.  Again  he 
thought  of  Clarice  with  the  touch  of  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

There  was  a  step  in  the  hall  outside,  a  quick  knock 
at  the  door,  and  Jimmy  Warfield,  scarcely  waiting  for 
an  invitation,  entered  noisily  and  cheerfully. 

"What,  ho,  Billy!"  he  cried.  "Why  don't  you  light 
up  ?  Don't  you  see  that  the  dark  has  come  upon  us  ?  " 

Guthrie  turned  on  the  lights. 

"Why  do  you  look  so  serious?"  exclaimed  Warfield 
when  he  saw  his  face.  "  Have  you  another  great  prob- 
lem on  hand?" 


TEMPTATION  251 

"Yes,  I  have,  Jimmy,  but  it  is  one  that  concerns  me 
only.  However,  I  am  not  above  advice  from  a  friend. 
Read  that,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

He  handed  the  letter  to  Warfield,  who  read  it  care- 
fully, and  then  whistled. 

"That's  a  lot  of  money,  Billy,"  he  said.    "I  don't 
expect  to  earn  as  much  in  a  good  many  years." 
"But  that  is  not  telling  me  what  you  think  of  it." 
"  Well,  Billy,  I've  seen  a  few  copies  of  this  newspaper, 
which  has  suddenly  got  the  idea  that  you  are  a  great 
man." 

"But  you  don't  give  advice." 

"I'd  rather  not.  I  can  say,  however,  that  we'd  be 
mighty  sorry  to  lose  you  in  this  State." 

"Jimmy,"  said  Guthrie,  and  he  felt  something  stir  at 
his  heart,  "I  believe  that  what  you  are  telling  me 
is  true." 

"Of  course!  Of  course  I"  said  Warfield  cheerily, 
affecting  lightness  because  he  saw  that  Guthrie  was 
really  moved. 

"I  won't  ask  you  for  your  opinion  again,"  said  Guth- 
rie, "but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You've  come  in  to 
see  me  because  you  didn't  have  anything  particular  on 
hand.  Suppose,  we  sit  here  and  talk  about  everything 
under  the  sun  except  this  letter." 

"Good  enough,"  said  Warfield,  and  he  launched  at 
once  upon  the  gossip  of  the  town.  He  was  never  gayer 
and  brighter,  and  he  was  like  a  whiff  of  a  spring  wind 
in  the  room  which  had  been  so  lonely  before. 

Jimmy  Warfield  was  a  wise  man  and  observant,  and 
he  soon  brought  the  cheerful  flow  of  his  talk  to  the  Gov- 
ernor's group. 
"Miss  Ransome  is  going  back  to  her  father's  house 


252  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

next  week,"  he  said,  "and  Mrs.  Hastings  and  Miss  Pel- 
ham  are  to  visit  her  very  soon." 

"What  about  Carton?" 

"I  think  it  likely  that  he  will  go  up  there,  too.  The 
trouble  between  him  and  Mary  Pelham  is  bound  to  be 
settled  before  long.  All  it  needs  is  an  explosion." 

"An  explosion?" 

"  Yes,  somebody  or  something  to  smash  up  the  barrier 
that  has  formed  between  them.  I've  a  good  notion  to 
get  the  two  together — by  force,  if  necessary — tell  them 
to  their  faces  that  they  have  been  very  foolish,  and  then 
leave  them  to  settle  it  as  best  they  can." 

Guthrie  laughed. 

"  I  wouldn't  risk  it  if  I  were  you,  Jimmy,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  suppose  I  won't,  but  I'm  tempted.  Now 
there's  another  thing  on  my  mind :  Clarice  Ransome  is 
going  to  marry  that  jumping-jack  of  a  count — I've  never 
seen  him,  but  I  know  he  must  be  a  jumping-jack.  It's 
a  genuine  wasting  of  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  You 
know  how  honourable  and  high-minded  she  is — what 
lofty  ideas  she  has  of  things.  He  can't  possibly  be 
worthy  of  her.  I  hope  some  good  man  in  our  State  will 
kidnap  her,  and  compel  her  to  marry  him;  it  would  be  a 
violent  deed  in  a  just  cause." 

Guthrie  did  not  laugh  this  time.  He  was  thinking  of 
Warfield's  words:  "how  honourable  and  high-minded 
she  is — what  lofty  ideas  she  has  of  things."  The  very 
same  thought  of  her  had  been  running  in  his  own  mind. 

When  Jimmy  War-field  left,  Guthrie  went  to  the 
telegraph  office,  and  sent  to  the  owner  of  the  great  news- 
paper in  New  York  this  short  despatch: 

"I  thank  you  for  your  generous  offer,  but  I  cannot 
accept  it.  Urgent  personal  reasons  forbid." 


TEMPTATION  253 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Guthrie  did  not  feel  regrets 
over  his  double  refusal.  He  had  plenty  of  ambition, 
and  now  there  was  another  motive  still  more  powerful 
to  drive  him  on.  He  thought  often  and  with  regret  of 
the  high  pay  offered  to  him  and  of  all  that  it  would 
make  possible;  but  he  had  no  idea  of  changing  his 
resolve  in  either  case. 

The  news  of  the  two  great  offers  to  Guthrie  spread  in 
the  little  capital,  one  he  had  no  doubt  through  Mr.  Har- 
low  and  the  other  through  Jimmy  Warfield — he  had  not 
thought  in  the  stress  of  the  moment  to  bind  either  to 
secrecy — and  now  he  was  compelled  to  blush.  The 
little  newspaper  of  the  town  announced  with  a  fine 
flourish  that  the  fame  of  Mr.  Guthrie,  the  correspond- 
ent of  the  Times,  so  popular  with  all  who  knew  him  and 
they  were  many,  had  spread  far.  Then  it  described 
with  generous  detail  the  grand  offers  that  had  been  made 
to  him,  and  announced  loftily  that  he  was  considering 
them. 

Guthrie  was  compelled  to  hide.  His  modesty  suf- 
fered in  reality.  He  understood  the  local  pride  which 
always  painted  its  own  in  as  vivid  colours  as  possible, 
but  this  was  going  pretty  far,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
made  to  appear  very  much  more  than  he  was. 

True  to  his  former  resolution,  he  did  not  go  near  the 
Governor's  house  until  the  morning  for  the  excursion 
in  the  woods,  knowing  now  that  he  had  all  the  greater 
reason  for  self-denial. 

The  day  was  good  for  their  arrangements,  the  spring 
unfolding  fresh  beauty  and  loveliness  in  every  curve  of 
hill  and  valley.  Here  and  there  tiny  wild  flowers  were 
beginning  already  to  show  vivid  colours  in  the  grass. 

They  wandered  far  back  from  the  river  until  the 


254  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

S 

capital  was  hidden  from  their  sight  by  the  swelling  hills. 
Only  a  plume  of  smoke  marked  where  it  stood.  Here, 
in  the  general  drift,  Guthrie  at  last  found  himself  again 
with  Clarice,  and  none  other  was  near.  He  had  noticed 
that  she  was  unusually  silent  that  day;  the  little  touch 
of  sadness  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  deepened,  and  it 
found  a  sympathetic  chord  in  his  own  heart. 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Guthrie,"  she  said,  after  some  aimless 
talk,  "that  you  are  going  to  leave  the  old  State  and 
achieve  your  fortune  in  New  York.  We  have  been 
reading  of  all  your  triumphs,  and  everybody  has  been 
talking  of  them,  too." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  do  either.  The  old  State  cannot 
get  rid  of  me  just  yet." 

She  had  picked  one  of  the  tiny  wild  flowers  from  the 
grass,  and  held  the  delicate  blossom  between  her  fingers. 
She  glanced  covertly  at  him  when  he  spoke,  but  her 
eyes  did  not  express  surprise. 

"No,"  he  continued,  "I  am  not  going." 

"They  were  great  offers,  unless  report  has  exagge- 
rated." 

"Financially,  they  were  large  offers — very  large  for 
me.  In  neither  case,  should  I  have  been  worth  the 
sum." 

"Was  that  the  reason  you  declined  ?" 

He  had  fallen,  almost  without  knowing  it,  into  the 
habit  of  telling  her  his  hopes  and  fears,  and  it  was 
natural  for  her  to  ask  him  his  reasons.  He  flushed  sud- 
denly as  he  thought  of  the  real  cause.  But  he  replied 
frankly. 

"No,  it  was  not.  I  had  in  my  mind  the  good  opinion 
of  others.  I  could  not  do  the  work  those  men  wanted 
me  to  do." 


TEMPTATION  255 

He  had  felt  the  wish  to  talk  to  some  one,  to  excuse 
himself  even  for  his  refusals,  and  now  he  poured  out  all 
his  thoughts  to  her.  There  was  something  inexpressibly 
sweet  to  him  in  this  confidence,  this  liberty  to  tell  her  all. 
He  described  to  her  every  detail  of  the  interview  with 
Mr.  Harlow,  and  he  gave  her  the  letter  of  the  newspaper 
editor  to  read. 

Guthrie  watched  her  as  she  read  the  letter,  but  some 
of  her  emotions  were  hidden  from  him.  When  she 
finished,  she  said  quietly,  "I  think  you  were  right, 
Mr.  Guthrie;  you  could  not  accept  either  this  offer 
or  the  other.  You  were  made  for  a  different  kind  of 
work." 

But  she  uttered  a  little  sigh,  so  soft  that  she  scarcely 
knew  of  it  herself,  and  Guthrie  did  not  hear. 

That  night  she  took  the  photograph  from  the  bottom 
of  her  trunk,  tore  it  up,  and  threw  the  pieces  in  the  fire. 

The  Legislature  adjourned  three  days  later,  and,  amid 
many  regrets,  the  great  political  family  dispersed,  each 
to  his  own  corner  of  the  State.  But  these  were  not  sad 
regrets.  In  this  State,  everybody  is  continually  meeting 
everybody  else  all  through  life. 

Clarice  went  directly  to  her  home  in  the  city,  and  her 
father  met  her  with  joy  unrestrained  upon  his  broad 
honest  face.  How  big  and  kind  he  looked!  And  how 
handsome  was  his  homely  face!  How  could  she  ever 
go  away  and  leave  him!  Then  she  looked  at  the  great 
brick  house  with  the  white  shutters,  in  which  she  was 
born,  and  at  the  wide  green  lawn  with  the  shadowing 
oaks;  she  would  find  abroad  nothing  more  beautiful 
and  nothing  more  friendly  or  protecting. 

That  night,  at  dinner,  her  mother  said : 

"I  suppose,  Clarice,  since  you  are  no  longer  com- 


256  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

pelled  to  meet  him,  that  you  will  see  no  more  of  young 
Mr.  Guthrie." 

"On  the  contrary,  mother,"  replied  Clarice,  "I  have 
asked  him  to  call  upon  me  here,  and  he  has  promised 
to  do  so." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH 

WHEN  the  Legislature  adjourned,  Guthrie  did  not 
linger  at  the  capital,  but  joined  at  once  in  the  general 
exodus.  The  train  which  bore  him  to  the  city,  his  home, 
also  carried  Tommy  Newlands,  Jimmy  Warfield,  Mr. 
Pursley,  Carton,  who  had  business  to  transact  in  the 
metropolis,  and  many  others  belonging  to  the  capital 
circle. 

They  made  a  big  group,  with  the  exception  of  Mr. 
Pursley,  who  was  crestfallen  and  under  a  very  thick 
and  black  cloud.  There  was  nothing  tangible  against 
him,  although  everybody  believed  that  he  had  been  the 
paid  agent  of  the  "United,"  which  never  again  would 
have  the  slightest  chance  of  passing  the  Legislature. 
This  belief  was  sufficient  to  ruin  Mr.  Pursley's  political 
career  for  the  time  at  least,  and  he  was  not  to  be  a  can- 
didate for  reelection  to  the  Legislature,  wisely  choosing 
a  temporary  obscurity,  although  Guthrie  believed  that 
he  would  try  to  make  capital  out  of  the  coming  fight 
over  the  congressional  election  in  the  Fourth  District 
But,  as  it  was,  Mr.  Pursley  was  now  gloomy,  and 
secluded  himself  in  a  forward  car,  while  all  the  others 
sat  in  the  "smoker." 

Carton  was  vastly  improved  in  manner.  The  ordeal 
through  which  he  had  passed  so  triumphantly  had  soft- 
ened his  nature.  He  seemed  to  realise  at  last  that,  to 

257 


258  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

some  extent,  he  had  brought  hostility  upon  himself,  and 
he  was  grateful,  too,  to  these  friends  who  had  stood  by 
him  through  all,  and  who  had  saved  him.  There  was  yet 
coldness  between  him  and  Mary  Pelham,  but  Guthrie 
began  to  believe  in  Jimmy  Warfield's  prediction  that  an 
"explosion"  would  drive  it  away,  and  he  looked  forward 
hopefully  to  the  time  when  the  "explosion"  would 
come. 

As  for  Guthrie,  he  was  yet  a  hero,  much  to  his  embar- 
rassment, and,  when  they  were  half-way  to  the  city, 
Tommy  Newlands  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of 
paper  with  ominous  writing  upon  it. 

"Billy,"  he  said,  "I  have  written  a  poem  describing 
your  gallant  deeds,  and  I  really  think  it  is  the  best  thing 
I  have  ever  done.  Gentlemen,  I  will  read  it  to  you." 

"Read  it!     Read  it!"  they  cried. 

Guthrie  arose,  a  ferocious  frown  on  his  face. 

"Tommy,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  warned  you  once  what  I 
should  do  if  ever  again  you  undertook  to  read  one  of 
your  poems  to  me,  and  now  you  not  only  try  to  read  one 
to  me,  but  it  is  about  me! " 

He  snatched  the  paper  from  Newlands'  hands,  and 
threw  it  out  of  the  window.  Newlands  groaned,  and 
the  others  laughed. 

"Never  mind,  Tommy,"  said  Warfield,  "it  is  not  lost. 
Some  farmer  will  pick  it  up,  and  it  will  be  passed  about 
all  through  the  rural  districts.  It  will  have  a  wonder- 
ful circulation." 

An  hour  later  they  were  in  the  city,  and  the  next  day 
Guthrie  attended  a  caucus  of  the  party  leaders  in  the 
Fourth  Congressional  District,  called  to  consider  the 
action  of  Henry  Clay  Warner,  the  incumbent,  who  was 
giving  the  most  serious  trouble. 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    269 

It  gratified  Guthrie's  pride  to  be  present  at  the  secret 
caucus  of  the  party  leaders,  but  the  fight  in  the  Old 
Fourth  was  a  weight  upon  his  mind,  and  it  became 
evident  to  him  as  the  men  talked  that  none  of  them 
saw  a  way  out  of  the  trouble.  Neither  could  he,  a 
much  interested  spectator,  suggest  any  course,  were 
he  asked,  and  he  was  glad  to  be  free  from  the  responsi- 
bility. 

He  sat  near  the  window,  and,  his  attention  wandering 
at  last  from  the  unsolved  and  vexing  political  question, 
he  looked  idly  through  the  dusty  pane  at  the  people  pass- 
ing in  the  street.  An  automobile,  the  first  to  arrive  in 
the  city,  whizzed  by,  and  he  followed  it  vaguely  with  his 
eyes,  until  it  disappeared  around  the  next  block;  the 
electric  cars  passed  at  intervals  with  a  heavy,  jarring 
sound,  and  then  a  carriage  full  of  pretty  girls  in  light 
fluffy  dresses  held  him  for  a  moment;  but  it  was  only  a 
moment,  because  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
was  Clarice  Ransome,  prettier  than  any  of  the  pretty 
girls  in  the  carriage — even  the  dusty  window-pane  could 
not  hide  her  youth  and  freshness — and,  by  bending  his 
head  forward  a  little,  his  eyes  were  able  to  follow  her 
longer  than  they  had  traced  the  course  of  the  auto- 
mobile. 

Clarice  had  been  increasingly  in  his  thoughts  lately, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  realise  that  her  place  there  was 
not  likely  to  diminish.  Both  Lucy  Hastings  and  Mary 
Pelham  would  be  at  her  house  in  a  few  days  for  a  long 
visit.  Carton  was  likely  to  come,  the  Governor  would 
run  down  no  wand  then,  Senator  Pike's  new  office  was 
located  in  the  city,  Warfield  lived  there,  and  Senator 
Cobb  would  certainly  be  present  at  the  convention. 
The  seat  of  action,  but  not  the  people,  was  changed. 


260  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

He  would  yet  be  surrounded  by  the  old  capital  group 
with  all  its  influences  and  associations. 

Guthrie  still  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  seek  Clarice 
Ransome — that  is,  to  pay  court  to  her;  but  he  would  not 
deny  himself  the  sight  of  her  face,  or  an  occasional  hour 
in  her  presence.  There  was  no  moral  law  calling  for 
such  self-denial,  and  he  would  exercise  his  privilege 
until  that  hideous  count  came  to  claim  her,  despite  the 
frowns  of  Mrs.  Ransome  who,  fortunately,  was  not  all- 
powerful.  Then  his  thoughts  returned  to  the  meeting 
that  he  was  attending. 

"It's  absolutely  certain  that  we  must  get  Warner  off 
the  track,  or  we  are  done  for,"  said  Hay,  the  chief  party- 
worker.  "  If  we  don't,  a  Republican  Congressman  will 
go  to  Washington  from  the  Old  Fourth  as  sure  as  shoot- 
ing!" 

But  no  one  could  suggest  a  way  to  make  Warner  retire. 

"It  never  had  a  Republican  representative,"  said  Mr. 
Parton,  the  editor  of  the  Gazette,  an  afternoon  Demo- 
cratic daily,  a  man  of  ability  and  lofty  character,  "  We 
have  been  free  of  that  disgrace  so  far." 

"A  freedom  that  does  not  promise  to  last,"  said  Willis, 
the  county  judge.  "  What  a  shame  that  the  party  should 
be  loaded  up  with  a  stupid,  obstinate  man  like  Warner! 
Is  there  no  way  to  placate  those  Prohibitionists  ?  " 

"None,  except  to  get  Warner  off  the  track,"  replied 
Hay,  "and  that  we  haven't  been  able  to  do.  He 
claims  that  he  is  entitled  to  a  renomination,  says  we  are 
down  on  him  because  he  wouldn't  help  our  men  to  office, 
and  swears  he'll  stay  in  the  race  until  the  polls  close  on 
Election  Day." 

"And  he's  been  seen  drunk  twice  on  the  streets  of 
Washington,"  said  Tom  Graham,  Hay's  chief  lieuten- 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    261 

ant.  "It's  the  first  time  the  Old  Fourth  was  ever  dis- 
graced before  the  whole  nation!" 

It  seemed  a  shame  to  Guthrie  that  the  glorious  old 
party  should  be  wrecked  in  the  Fourth  District  by  an 
obstinate,  drinking  man  like  Warner.  It  was  clear 
that  the  Prohibitionists,  five  thousand  strong,  who 
usually  voted  with  the  Democrats  would  never  support 
Warner,  and  since  many  straight  Democrats  would 
reject  him,  too,  the  split  in  their  ranks  was  sure  to  give 
the  Republicans  an  easy  victory.  It  was  enough  to 
make  a  man,  bred  in  party  traditions,  as  all  are  in  this 
State,  hot  with  wrath,  and  seek  everywhere  for  a  way 
out  of  the  trouble. 

Perkins,  the  Republican  candidate,  in  an  ordinary 
time  would  have  had  no  chance,  as  the  Old  Fourth 
was  at  least  five  thousand  Democratic  with  a  united 
party,  but  now,  alas,  the  party  was  grievously,  hope- 
lessly split,  and  the  heavy-jawed,  coarse-minded  Per- 
kins was  to  sit  for  the  famous  Old  Fourth  in  the  Capitol 
of  the  nation.  All  the  correspondents  hated  him,  as 
he  habitually  violated  the  code  of  ethics  established  in 
this  State  by  the  press  and  public  men  in  their  mutual 
dealings.  Guthrie  remembered  very  well  an  interview 
with  Perkins  that  he  had  written  once  for  the  Times, 
chiefly  at  the  man's  own  suggestion,  but  which  Perkins 
afterward  denied,  the  effect  being  other  than  he  wished. 
Guthrie's  face  flamed  now  at  the  memory  of  it,  and  his 
blood  grew  hot. 

Avery,  the  national  committeeman,  made  a  little 
speech,  speaking  in  a  low,  even  voice,  but  very  much 
to  the  point.  He  reminded  them  that  the  next  House, 
so  every  shrewd  observer  said,  would  be  almost  even 
between  the  Democrats  and  the  Republicans,  and  a 


262  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

single  district  might  turn  the  balance  of  power,  hence 
the  trouble  in  the  Old  Fourth,  and  a  district  usually  so 
sure  for  the  Democrats  had  risen  to  national  impor- 
tance. The  big  men  at  Washington — those  of  both 
parties — were  watching  it,  and  while  the  Republicans 
were  glad,  the  Democrats  were  sad.  Warner's  fellow 
members  had  tried  to  make  him  listen  to  reason,  the 
two  white-headed  senators  from  the  State  had  talked 
to  him  again  and  again,  telling  him  how  he  was  ruin- 
ing the  party  as  well  as  himself,  but  in  vain — nothing 
could  move  the  stubborn  man  from  his  purpose;  par- 
ticularly as  he  thought  he  had  a  grievance  against  the 
party  leaders  in  his  district,  and  his  stubbornness  was 
increased  by  his  feeling  of  injury.  He  was  egged  on 
by  Timothy  O'Hara,  an  Irish  demagogue  who  posed 
as  a  labour  leader. 

The  speech  was  received  with  attention,  but  still  no 
one  could  suggest  a  way,  and  they  adjourned  without 
action. 

Guthrie  remained  a  while  with  several  of  the  others 
and  talked  in  a  desultory  way  about  the  general  pros- 
pects of  the  campaign,  and  the  respective  chances  of 
Graves  and  Headly,  also  candidates  for  the  Demo- 
cratic nomination.  Graves  was  a  rich  distiller,  who 
had  long  cherished  a  political  ambition,  and  who 
thought  the  time  had  come  to  gratify  it.  Headly  was 
a  lawyer  of  ability,  desirous  also  of  going  to  Congress. 
Both  were  respectable  men,  not  brilliant,  but  of  good 
standing  and  industrious,  and  the  leaders  present  in 
the  caucus  did  not  care  which  was  nominated.  Both 
were  willing  to  go  into  a  convention  or  submit  their 
claims  to  a  primary  election,  but  Warner  refused  to  do 
so,  claiming  that  all  the  party  machinery  would  be 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    263 

used  unfairly  to  beat  him,  and,  therefore,  he  intended 
to  run  on  his  own  platform — a  thing  unheard  of  before 
in  the  Old  Fourth,  and  well  calculated  to  make  the 
party  leaders  stand  aghast 

Guthrie  left  alone,  after  the  talk,  lingered  a  little  by 
the  way;  twilight  was  coming:  the  afternoon  heat 
was  over,  and  everybody  was  on  the  streets. 

It  was  a  good  city  of  200,000  people,  sitting  beside 
a  great  river,  on  the  border  line  of  North  and  South, 
and  looking  both  ways.  Thus,  northern  people  called 
it  southern,  and  southern  people  sometimes  called  it 
northern;  but  it  was  more  southern  than  northern, 
because,  while  now  and  then  northern  in  mode  of 
thought,  it  was  always  southern  in  manner  and  speech. 

.The  street  down  which  he  was  walking,  led  straight 
and  quickly  to  the  river,  a  light  yellow  current,  nearly 
a  mile  wide,  flowing  on  slowly  and  quietly  with  all  the 
gravity  of  ages.  The  "knobs,"  as  the  high  hills  on 
the  farther  shore  are  locally  called,  were  hi  the  fresh 
bloom  of  early  spring,  and  made  a  brilliant  background 
for  the  wide,  yellow  river.  But  here  and  there,  amid 
the  masses  of  green  that  almost  covered  the  rugged 
slopes,  the  delicate  pink  of  a  peach-tree  in  new  bloom 
shone  like  a  rose  against  a  lady's  dress.  And  above 
and  beyond  the  green  was  the  blue  of  the  sky  with 
streaks  of  red  gold  from  the  setting  sun. 

Guthrie  was  on  the  main  artery  of  retail  traffic,  a 
street  which  five  or  six  blocks  from  the  heart  of  the 
city  changes  its  character  and  becomes  the  finest  and 
most  fashionable  residence  avenue  of  the  place.  In 
either  capacity,  the  town  life  flows  through  it,  and 
Billy  Guthrie  knew  everybody,  and  at  least  half  of 
them  called  him  by  his  first  name. 


264  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

He  was  busy  now,  bowing  or  speaking  to  his  acquain- 
tances, and  some  of  the  heavy  political  gloom  that  had 
settled  over  him  was  lifted.  Then  he  met  Clarice 
Ransome,  and  it  was  all  gone  for  the  time.  When 
Clarice  left  the  Capital,  she  had  found  that  her  newly 
awakened  interest  in  public  life  was  continuous.  She 
knew  that  Guthrie  was  deeply  concerned  about  the 
fight  in  the  Old  Fourth,  and  she  wished,  too,  to  know 
its  developments. 

When  they  had  spoken  of  the  Capital  and  their 
friends,  Guthrie  told  her  that  he  had  been  attending 
a  caucus  of  the  Democratic  leaders. 

"Didn't  it  form  a  plan  to  get  Mr.  Warner  out  of 
the  way?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  willing  enough,  but  it  couldn't  devise  any," 
he  replied. 

Then,  seeing  his  gloomy  feelings,  she  changed  the 
talk  to  lighter  topics,  and  the  brightness  of  life  came 
back  to  him  as  he  walked  home  with  her  in  the  twilight. 
In  June,  that  hour,  when  the  narrowest  rim  of  the  sun 
is  lingering  just  beyond  the  western  hills  and  the  night 
has  not  yet  come,  is  a  wonderful  time  in  the  city.  It 
breathes  of  tender  grass  and  new  fkfwers,  and  troubles 
roll  away.  Guthrie  felt  it  now  in  its  fullest  and  keen- 
est delight. 

He  left  her  at  her  father's  door.  He  would  not  go 
in,  not  because  he  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Ransome,  but 
for  the  reason  that  he  was  to  call  the  next  evening  and 
he  did  not  wish  to  push  himself.  Mr.  Ransome  he 
knew  already  and  liked. 

But  Guthrie  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  next  block 
and  looked  back  at  the  big  house  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  wide,  green  lawn.  Again  he  felt  that  acute  but 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    265 

recent  desire  to  be  rich.  He  sighed  and  turning 
abruptly  away,  walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue. 

The  Times  the  next  morning  contained  a  double- 
leaded  editorial,  written  by  its  celebrated  editor,  and 
headed,  "To  Your  Tents,  O  Israel,"  dwelling  on  the 
necessity  of  party  harmony,  and  why  it  was  pleasant 
for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity.  No  names 
were  called,  nor  was  there  any  direct  reference  to  the 
Old  Fourth,  but  who  and  what  were  meant  was  plain 
to  everybody.  The  great  editor  put  the  matter  truth- 
fully and  in  eloquent  language,  but  several  days  passed 
and  no  sign  came  from  Warner  and  his  friends. 

Guthrie  meanwhile  called  at  the  Ransome  house, 
and  was  well  received  by  Clarice  and  her  father,  and 
non-committally  by  Mrs.  Ransome,  who  talked  through- 
out the  evening  about  dear  Raoul  and  his  coming  visit 
to  America.  Guthrie  observing  keenly,  noticed  that 
Mr.  Ransome  did  not  like  it,  but  he  was  unable  to 
judge  of  Clarice's  feelings. 

Two  days  later,  Lucy  Hastings  and  Mary  Pelham 
arrived  for  their  visit,  and  Guthrie  called  again.  Now 
he  knew  that  Mrs.  Ransome  was  unhappy;  her  daugh- 
ter was  still  surrounded  by  the  associations  that  she  had 
disliked  at  the  capital,  but  old  John  Ransome  was  the 
prince  of  hosts,  and  when  he  saw  Guthrie  much  by  the 
side  of  Clarice,  he  was  not  offended.  It  was  at  this 
second  call  that  he  spoke  of  the  congressional  race. 
John  Ransome  shai^d  Guthrie's  feelings,  but  Mrs. 
Ransome  expressed  privately  to  her  husband  her  hor- 
ror of  their  awful  politics;  common  politeness  would 
not  let  her  speak  that  way  before  Lucy  Hastings,  who 
was  the  wife  of  a  governor.  "Oh,  pshaw  1  Jane," 
said  Mr.  Ransome. 


266  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Guthrie  found  that  the  temptation  to  be  often  at  the 
Ransome  house  was  irresistible.  The  wistful,  almost 
pathetic  look  in  Clarice's  eyes  that  he  surprised  there 
now  and  then,  drew  him  on,  and  while  he  was  already 
sorry  for  himself,  he  began  to  feel  sorry  for  her  too. 
He  did  not  know  how  dangerous  to  him  was  such  a 
feeling. 

Old  John  Ransome  seemed  to  delight  in  the  com- 
pany of  these  young  people,  and  he  always  pressed  him 
to  come  back  again.  "They  are  my  kind,  and  I  like 
my  kind,"  he  once  said  to  his  wife.  Warfield,  too, 
came,  and  Carton,  and  the  Governor,  and  one  evening 
when  Guthrie  brought  Senator  Pike  and  Senator 
Cobb,  they  were  all  gathered  in  Mr.  Ransome's  big 
drawing-room.  Even  Tommy  Newlands  was  not 
lacking,  and  it  was  a  bright  evening  for  the  whole 
group, 

The  next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  when  only 
the  Ransomes  were  present,  Mrs.  Ransome  said  with 
obvious  meaning: 

"I  am  glad  that  Raoul  will  be  here  soon." 

"He  will  not  be  here,"  said  Clarice. 

Mrs.  Ransome  let  her  fork  drop.  Mr.  Ransome 
looked  at  his  daughter  and  saw  a  firm,  set  expression 
upon  her  face.  "My  goodness,  Clarice  is  not  afraid 
of  her  mother!"  was  his  sudden  thought. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Ransome  in  her 
most  terrible  tones. 

"I  have  written  to  him  not  to  come,"  replied  Clarice. 

"Not  to  come?" 

"Not  to  come;  never  to  come;  I  have  told  him  that 
I  cannot  marry  him.  It  was  a  mistake.  His  people 
are  not  my  people,  and  my  people  are  not  his.  We 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    267 

could  never  be  happy  together,  and  I  have  taken  the 
course  that  I  think  is  right. 

"And  you  are  right,  Clarice,  God  bless  you!"  ex- 
claimed John  Ransome.  And  in  his  foolish  fondness 
he  arose  from  the  table  and  kissed  his  daughter  on  either 
cheek.  But  Mrs.  Ransome  was  all  ice. 

"Then  I  suppose,  since  you  have  behaved  so  badly 
to  Raoul,  you  mean  to  marry  this  newspaper  fellow, 
Guthrie,"  she  said. 

"If  he  asks  me  I  certainly  shall,"  replied  Clarice 
serenely,  though  she  was  very  pale,  "but  he  has  not 
asked  me  yet." 

Mrs.  Ransome,  aghast  with  horror,  swept  out  of  the 
room.  Mr.  Ransome  was  silent,  overwhelmed  by  his 
rising  admiration  for  his  daughter. 

Guthrie  often  talked  over  the  political  situation  with 
Clarice,  and  she  shared  his  wish  to  find  a  way  out,  if 
such  a  way  there  was.  She  had  an  abiding  faith  in 
Guthrie.  She  admired  his  zeal  and  believed  in  his 
ability.  He  still  cherished  the  hope  that  he  would 
become  some  day  the  head  of  the  Washington  bureau 
of  the  Times,  and  there  on  the  great  stage  of  the  national 
capital  find  full  scope  for  his  talents.  Wallace,  the 
present  head,  was  getting  old  and  stiff,  and  before  many 
years  he  must  have  an  assistant — an  assistant  nominally, 
but  a  chief  so  far  as  the  work  was  concerned 

"When  that  assistant  is  selected,  I  intend  to  be  the 
man,  Miss  Ransome,"  he  repeated,  "and  then  I  won't 
be  going  around  the  counties  here,  hunting  up  the  news 
of  peanut  politics.  One  can  find  at  Washington  the 
things  that  count." 

He  never  spoke  to  her  of  love,  but  she  could  see  it  in 
his  eyes,  and  she  knew  what  held  him  back.  For  the 


268  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIME 

first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  dissatisfied  with  her  fath- 
er's wealth.  The  news  of  her  broken  engagement  to 
Raoul  was  soon  spread  over  the  city.  She  mentioned 
it  herself  to  a  few  of  her  personal  friends,  and  she  did 
not  ask  them  to  keep  it  a  secret.  Lucy  and  Mary 
offered  her  their  quiet  congratulations.  "I  think  you 
have  chosen  the  wise  course,  Clarice,"  each  of  them 
said.  Her  father,  too,  was  a  tower  of  strength  to  her 
in  these  days,  and  she  had  a  vast  sense  of  relief. 

She  was  happy  now  in  the  big  house,  surrounded  by 
her  friends  of  the  two  cities,  the  capital  and  this,  and 
she  did  not  notice  how  seldom  they  spoke  of  Guthrie 
in  his  absence.  He  was  never  obtruded  upon  her,  but, 
besides  seeing  him  often,  she  heard  of  him  almost  daily 
in  the  general  flow  of  the  public  life  of  the  city. 

Warner  returned  suddenly  from  Washington,  but 
his  friends,  apprised  in  advance  of  his  coming,  organ- 
ised a  great  reception  and  a  torchlight  parade,  accom- 
panied by  so  much  tumult  and  such  a  flashing  of  sky- 
rockets and  Roman  candles,  that  the  masses  were 
impressed.  Warner  himself  was  exultant,  and  took 
no  pains  to  conceal  it.  "After  all,  the  people  are  for 
me,"  he  said,  and  his  opponents  felt  that  they  had  been 
caught  napping. 

The  leaders  decided  upon  a  convention  rather  than 
a  primary  election,  although  it  would  be  useless  unless 
they  could  get  Warner  into  it.  Still,  for  the  sake  of 
regularity,  they  must  observe  the  forms,  and  Guthrie 
went  forth  the  very  next  day  to  follow  the  campaign 
which  Warner  was  beginning. 

The  member  intended  to  make  what  he  called  a 
"whirlwind  campaign" — that  is,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, he  was  going  to  talk  the  people  "clean  off  their 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    269 

feet,"  speech  succeeding  speech  so  fast  that  they  would 
not  have  time  to  recover  from  one  before  they  were  hit 
with  another.  But,  when  Guthrie  looked  at  his  schedule, 
he  noticed  that  at  least  half  the  speeches  were  to  be 
made  in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards,  thickly  in- 
habited by  the  most  ignorant  part  of  the  city's  popu- 
lation. Warner  cunningly  preferring  to  campaign 
among  his  own  friends,  where  he  would  receive  the 
most  applause,  and,  therefore,  make  the  deepest  im- 
pression on  the  public. 

Headly  and  Graves  were  already  in  the  field,  each 
making  a  vigorous  canvass,  and  each  announcing  in 
every  speech  that  he  was  ready  to  abide  by  the  decision 
of  a  convention.  Each  also  challenged  Warner  to  a 
joint  debate,  or  series  of  debates,  in  which  the  three 
should  participate,  but  Warner  declined  all  such  offers, 
and  made  a  merit  of  it,  saying  that  Headly  and  Graves 
were  silk  stockings,  and  the  representatives  of  pluto- 
crats, and  he,  a  real  Democrat,  could  not  afford  to  as- 
sociate with  them.  No,  he  preferred  to  talk  to  the 
people  in  his  own  way. 

Warner  was  glad  when  he  heard  that  Guthrie  was 
to  report  him,  having  a  strong  faith  in  Guthrie,  despite 
the  fact  that  he  worked  for  the  enemy.  But  he  soon 
began  to  feel  disappointed  with  the  accounts  of  his 
campaign  that  appeared  in  the  Times,  although  he 
could  not  tell  just  where  the  fault  lay.  They  seemed 
to  miss  the  effect  that  his  speeches,  in  his  opinion,  cre- 
ated, although  he  could  not  pick  out  a  single  sentence 
anywhere  and  say  it  was  untrue.  When  he  read  his 
Times  every  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  it  fell  upon 
him  like  a  wet  blanket,  and  he  went  back  to  his  cam- 
paign with  decreased  energy  and  spirits. 


270  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Guthrie  in  thus  reporting  Warner's  campaign  was 
not  pursuing  any  preconcerted  plan.  He  had  asked 
to  go  with  him  in  behalf  of  his  newspaper,  because  he 
thought  that,  by  dwelling  upon  one  or  two  points  in 
their  talk,  he  might  influence  the  man's  mind,  and  there 
was  always  a  chance  that  the  campaign  would  develop 
some  favourable  opportunity.  Unconsciously,  he  began 
to  colour  his  reports  with  his  own  feelings;  as  his  con- 
tempt for  Warner  increased,  he  could  not  keep  from 
putting  in  his  accounts  every  foolish  display  that  the 
member  made  of  himself,  and  they  were  numerous. 
These  were  the  incidents  that  appealed  to  Guthrie  most 
strongly  now,  and,  as  a  consequence,  they  appeared 
most  vividly  in  his  narrative.  Mr.  Stetson  saw  what 
was  happening,  but  he  kept  his  own  counsel. 

At  the  Ransome  house,  where  Guthrie  was  a  con- 
stant visitor,  these  reports  were  read  with  the  greatest 
interest.  John  Ransome  chuckled  over  them,  and 
more  than  once  avowed  his  opinion  that  "young  Guth- 
rie was  a  deuced  clever  fellow."  Clarice  said  nothing, 
but  in  such  moments  she  had  a  very  warm  feeling 
for  her  father.  Mrs.  Ransome  preserved  a  majestic 
silence.  She  had  told  her  husband  once  that  she 
was  going  to  "have  it  out"  with  Clarice,  and  after  she 
"had  it  out,"  she  looked  so  glum  that  he  did  not  ven- 
ture to  ask  her  any  questions.  But  he  laughed  softly 
and  said  to  himself,  "Jane  ought  to  remember  that 
Clarice  is  her  own  daughter." 

Nearly  two  weeks  passed,  and  whenever  Guthrie 
saw  Clarice  and  was  asked  to  report  progress,  he  would 
shake  his  head  doubtfully.  "I'm  sure  of  only  one 
thing,"  he  would  say,  "namely,  that  the  bottom  is 
falling  out  of  Warner's  canvass.  But  the  weaker  he 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    271 

becomes  with  the  people,  the  more  stubborn  he  may 
grow  personally;  it  often  has  that  effect,  you  know. 
And  if  we  can't  get  him  off  the  track  or  into  the  con- 
vention, we're  done  for,  anyhow.  Five  thousand 
Prohibitionists  bolting  from  us  make  it  a  sure  thing 
for  Perkins." 

But  she  would  not  despair.  She  did  not  know  just 
why  it  was,  she  said,  but  she  felt  that  everything  would 
yet  come  out  all  right,  the  Old  Fourth  would  be  saved, 
and  he  would  get  his  appointment. 

Warner  began  to  turn  to  Guthrie  for  suggestions 
which  would  go  well  in  his  speeches,  ideas  about  democ- 
racy, and  the  duty  of  a  member  to  his  constituents, 
and  Guthrie,  who  had  made  a  thorough  study  of  poli- 
tics, besides  having  a  wide  experience  as  a  spectator, 
always  furnished  them.  He  still  retained  a  certain 
sympathy  for  Warner,  and  he  could  not  refuse  such 
requests.  In  this  way,  and  almost  unconsciously,  he 
became  an  increasingly  heavy  contributor  to  the  mate- 
rial of  Warner's  speeches,  and  the  really  good  parts 
of  them — the  parts  which  dealt  with  genuine  public 
questions,  and  not  mere  local  squabbles,  came  from 
Guthrie. 

This  had  been  going  on  for  some  time  before  Guth- 
rie realised  suddenly  what  he  was  doing,  and  the  dis- 
covery put  an  idea  in  his  head.  He  was  hopeful  again 
of  getting  Warner  into  the  convention,  and  he  wrote 
a  speech  of  renunciation  for  the  refractory  member. 
He  wrote  it  without  any  suggestion  from  Warner,  in 
fact,  without  his  knowledge,  but  it  appealed  to  him  as 
the  speech  the  member  ought  to  make  in  the  conven- 
tion ;  it  was  the  duty  that  he  owed  to  his  district,  to  his 
party  and  to  justice. 


272  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Guthrie  was  so  full  of  the  subject,  he  had  looked  at 
it  so  keenly  from  every  point  of  view,  and  he  felt  so 
deeply  about  it,  that  it  was  not  hard  for  him  to  trans- 
fer his  thoughts  to  paper,  and  to  express  them  in  the 
manner  that  seemed  to  him  fitting.  So  he  was  pleased 
when  he  finished  the  speech  and  read  it  over  to  see  its 
effect.  In  order  not  to  be  deceived,  he  read  it  also  to 
Clarice,  whom  he  usually  found  to  be  a  just  and  fear- 
less critic. 

"Fine!  Fine!"  she  said,  "but  it  is  wasted.  What 
do  you  expect  to  do  with  it  ?  You  know  that  you  can 
never  make  Warner  deliver  that  speech." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  can't,"  he  replied.  "Any- 
way I  may  be  able  to  instill  it  into  him,  bit  by  bit,  and 
in  the  end  he'll  say  it  all,  though  I  admit  that  the  effect 
like  the  speech  will  be  scattered." 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  then  added  resolutely: 

"No,  he's  got  to  say  this  speech  all  at  once,  and  I'll 
make  him.  I'll  find  an  opportunity  yet." 

The  time  set  for  the  convention  was  drawing  near, 
and  Guthrie's  whole  plan  now  was  to  accustom  War- 
ner's mind  to  the  idea  of  renunciation.  Holding  this 
in  view,  he  sought  to  instil  little  bits  of  his  speech  to 
that  effect  into  Warner's  addresses,  succeeding  in  some 
cases,  and  failing  in  others.  Nevertheless,  he  created 
an  effect,  changing  to  a  slight  extent  the  tone  of  War- 
ner's campaign,  and  he  persisted. 

The  fact  that  Guthrie  had  written  a  speech,  which 
he  wanted  Warner  to  make  became  known  in  some 
manner  to  others  than  Clarice  and  himself.  Perhaps 
Clarice  whispered  it  to  somebody,  who  whispered  it 
to  somebody  else,  but  in  any  event,  Mr.  Stetson  called 
him  into  his  private  office  one  evening,  and  said: 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    273 

"I  hear  that  you  have  written  a  speech  for  Warner, 
Mr.  Guthrie." 

Guthrie  reddened  and  was  confused,  but  answered 
in  a  few  moments: 

"Yes,  I  have,  but  I'm  afraid  he  won't  deliver  it." 

"Is  it  a  good  speech?"  asked  Mr.  Stetson  whim- 
sically. 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  fits  the  case." 

"If  it  does  that,  it  is  certainly  a  good  speech.  Let 
me  see  it." 

Guthrie  was  embarrassed  by  this  unexpected  request, 
which,  coming  from  his  superior  officer,  amounted  to 
an  order,  and  he  was  glad  that  he  did  not  have  his 
manuscript  with  him.  But  Mr.  Stetson  would  not  con- 
tent himself  with  such  an  explanation,  and  he  demanded 
that  Guthrie  repeat  to  him  the  speech,  or  at  least 
the  gist  of  it.  Guthrie  despite  many  endeavours 
to  evade  the  request,  was  compelled  to  yield  at 
last,  and  recite  the  speech,  which  he  knew  word  for 
word. 

The  keynote  of  this  address  was  self-sacrifice — the 
necessity,  when  one  becomes  an  obstruction,  of  stand- 
ing aside  for  the  sake  of  the  party  and  for  the  good  of 
the  country,  the  sinking  of  ambition,  in  order  to  pro- 
mote the  general  welfare.  Other  things  were  em- 
phasised, but  this  was  the  point  upon  which  he  dwelt, 
and  he  felt  everything  that  he  said,  as  he  recited  his 
speech  to  Mr.  Stetson.  He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  but 
his  voice  was  full  of  feeling — he  had  thought  so  long 
and  so  hard  upon  this  subject  that  he  was  carried  a 
little  bit  out  of  himself  as  he  spoke.  When  he  came 
to  the  end,  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  had  delivered 
it  without  embarrassment. 


274  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Mr.  Stetson  said  only  a  word  or  two,  just  enough  to 
indicate  his  satisfaction. 

"I  hope  you'll  get  him  to  make  that  speech  in  the 
convention,  and  then  withdraw/'  said  he. 

Guthrie  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Stetson's  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  as  he  went  out,  and  that  after  his  steps  died 
away  down  the  hall,  the  great  editor's  face  wore  a  very 
thoughtful  look. 

The  convention  was  now  almost  at  hand,  and  Guth- 
rie felt  that  affairs  were  going  well.  The  Prohibition- 
ists still  refrained  from  a  nomination,  though  their 
front  was  as  menacing  as  ever,  and  beyond  a  doubt 
they  would  keep  their  word  unless  Warner  was  forced 
off  the  track.  But  Guthrie  reported  to  the  leaders  that 
Warner  might  yet  weaken,  as  he  was  daily  growing 
more  discouraged. 

"I  think  I'll  see  Washington,  Miss  Ransome,"  he 
said,  "but  the  odds  are  still  against  me,  and  I've  got 
to  fight  awful  hard." 

The  day  before  the  convention  Guthrie  heard  a 
piece  of  news  that  affected  him  very  greatly,  touching 
as  it  did,  his  tenderest  feelings.  It  was  already  known 
to  many  people,  but  as  often  happens,  he  whom  it  con- 
cerned so  much  was  among  the  last  that  it  reached. 
He  was  with  Warfield,  and  he  was  compelled  to  speak 
in  some  connection  of  the  distant  Raoul. 

"I  suppose  he  will  be  here  soon,"  he  said. 

Jimmy  Warfield  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard?"  he  exclaimed.  "He's 
not  coming." 

"Not  coming?" 

"No;  the  engagement  is  broken.  Miss  Ransome, 
fortunately,  I  think,  found  out  in  time  that  she  didn't 


THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  OLD  FOURTH    275 

love  him,  and  she  had  the  courage  to  tell  him  so,  or  at 
least  write  him  so.  Why,  the  whole  town  knows  it!" 

Guthrie  was  silent,  and  Jimmy  Warfield  watched 
his  face  curiously,  but  he  did  not  allude  again  to  the 
subject.  Guthrie  felt  at  first  a  mighty  sense  of  relief, 
but  after  a  while  it  passed  away.  He  had  never  really 
feared  Raoul;  he  could  never  persuade  himself  that 
Clarice  was  going  to  marry  that  hirsute  foreigner,  and 
now  the  news  was  but  a  confirmation  of  his  belief. 
The  real  obstacle  remained. 

But  he  honoured  Clarice  for  her  courage,  and  when 
next  he  met  her  there  was  such  a  strain  of  tenderness 
in  his  voice,  that,  startled,  she  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes.  But  he  spoke  only 
of  current  subjects 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE     CONVENTION 

A  CONVENTION  in  the  Old  Fourth,  as  well  as  any 
other  district  of  this  State,  is  more  than  a  political 
occasion;  it  is  also  social  and  sportive,  or,  at  times, 
it  may  even  have  a  religious  colour,  becoming,  in  short, 
a  festive  event,  tinged  now  and  then  with  solemnity, 
and  an  underlying,  but  never  forgotten  serious  purpose. 
They  develop,  too,  the  variety  and  humour  of  life  in  a 
State,  rich  in  all  these  respects,  and  hence  everybody 
except  the  defeated  candidates,  who  are  supposed  not 
to  complain,  enjoys  them. 

But  no  one  of  this  generation  remembered  a  con- 
vention in  the  Old  Fourth  which  excited  so  much  in- 
terest as  the  one  now  about  to  be  called  to  order.  It 
contained  the  elements  likely  to  excite  keen  curiosity 
and  a  desire  to  attend:  Warner's  peculiar  position, 
the  uncertainty  of  his  course,  the  angry  shadow  of  the 
Prohibitionists  hovering  over  them,  and  the  well- 
known  fact  that  the  whole  fate  of  the  next  Congress 
might  turn  upon  this  convention.  Guthrie  had  a  talk 
with  Warner  on  the  eve  of  it,  but  he  could  get  from  him 
no  promise. 

He  reported  this  lack  of  success  again  at  the  Ransome 
house,  and  his  look  was  disconsolate  as  he  made  his 
report.  But  Clarice  spoke  cheerfully. 

"I  believe  that  you  will  succeed  yet,  Mr.  Guthrie," 

276 


THE  CONVENTION  277 

6  said,  and  Guthrie  gave  her  a  grateful  glance.  Her 
faith  in  him  reacted  upon  him,  and  gave  him  self- 
confidence. 

Carton  was  in  the  city  again,  having  decided  to  attend 
the  convention  in  the  Fourth,  which  would  be  of  ab- 
sorbing interest  to  every  public  man  in  the  State,  and 
he  said  to  Guthrie:  "The  party  in  this  State  already 
owes  you  a  great  deal— I  need  not  speak  of  myself 
again,  and  how  much  I  owe  you— and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  you  seem  to  be  the  chief  reliance  in  this  affair. 
Now  what  do  you  expect  if  you  succeed  in  it?" 

It  was  the  same  question  that  Clarice  Ransome  had 
asked  him  more  than  once,  and  the  coincidence  struck 
Guthrie. 

"The  Washington  bureau  of  the  Times  has  been 
promised  to  me,"  he  replied,  "and  I  tell  you,  Philip 
Carton,  that  if  you  get  on  the  wrong  side  in  Congress 
I  shall  say  so." 

"I  sincerely  hope  that  you  will  get  what  you  want, 
Billy,  said  Carton  with  emphasis. 

Guthrie,  although  deeply  disappointed  by  Warner's 
actions,  was  forced  to  be  resigned  and  await  the  course 
of  events  in  the  convention  itself. 

It  was  said  that  Warner  would  be  present  on  the 
floor  of  the  convention,  a  proceeding  unusual  in  a 
candidate — quite  contrary  to  the  code  of  political 
ethics,  as  practised  throughout  the  State — and  it  was 
certain  that  the  delegations  from  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  wards  would  be  composed  almost  wholly  of  his 
friends. 

Guthrie  ascertained  also  that  Pursley  was  working 
incessantly  in  Warner's  favour,  although  he  was  very 
quiet  about  it,  as  his  support,  while  the  cloud  of  scandal 


278  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

still  rested  upon  him,  was  a  doubtful  asset.  Guthrie 
knew  that  Pursley  cared  nothing  for  Warner,  but  was 
merely  carrying  on  an  agitation  against  those  in  power, 
hoping  to  profit  by  a  revolution. 

Templeton,  too,  appeared  in  the  city,  and  was  often 
with  Pursley.  All  that  Guthrie  had  foreseen  was 
coming  to  pass — Templeton  was  sinking  lower  and 
lower. 

The  convention  met  early  in  the  morning  of  a  beau- 
tiful June  day — one  of  those  days  that  are  not  so  rare 
in  June  in  this  State.  Guthrie,  from  his  seat  at  the 
press  table  on  the  stage  in  Music  Hall,  where  the  con- 
ventions always  meet,  could  see  through  the  rear  win- 
dows, between  the  clefts  of  houses  far  across  the  wide, 
yellow  river,  to  the  hills,  now  clad  in  a  deeper  green. 
There  all  was  peace  and  beauty,  and  he  thought,  with 
a  half-smile,  of  the  stormy  times  so  soon  to  come  on 
the  floor  here  before  him. 

The  earliness  of  the  hour  set  for  the  opening  of  the 
convention  did  not  keep  the  people  from  pouring  into 
the  hall  before  then.  It  is  a  great  hall,  the  largest  in 
the  State,  with  an  immense  auditorium,  two  balconies 
above  and  eight  boxes,  but  it  was  soon  apparent  that 
every  seat  would  be  taken.  The  boxes  were  filled  with 
prominent  men  and  their  feminine  relatives. 

In  one,  sat  the  familiar  "governor's  group,"  the  Gov- 
ernor and  his  wife,  Mary  Pelham,  Clarice  Ransome, 
Mrs.  Dennison,  Mr.  Carton,  Mr.  Ransome,  and  Mr. 
Pike,  now  the  pension  commissioner.  Mrs.  Ransome 
had  refused  to  come,  saying  that  the  affair  did  not  inter- 
est her,  but  General  and  Mrs.  Pelham  were  present. 

Deep  as  was  the  political  interest  in  this  convention, 
it  was  evident  at  once  that  the  social  phase  would  not 


THE  CONVENTION  279 

be  inferior.  The  city  is  famous  for  its  pretty  girls, 
and  they  are  seen  at  their  best  in  May  and  June,  when 
they  come  out  in  thin,  white  or  light-coloured  dresses. 
Then,  indeed,  is  the  poet's  simile  of  a  "garden of  girls" 
most  fit.  They  were  thick  in  the  hall — everywhere 
except  in  the  space  railed  off  for  the  delegates,  and 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  carry  flowers  or  roses 
in  her  hair,  or  on  her  dress,  in  addition  to  those  in  her 
cheeks.  The  great  hall  was  alive  with  vivid,  beauti- 
ful, and  varied  colours,  now  contrasting,  now  blend- 
ing into  one  harmonious  whole. 

It  seemed  like  a  vast  bouquet  to  Guthrie,  sitting 
modestly  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  looking  toward 
the  crowd,  and  it  gave  him  a  deep  sense  of  pleasure  and 
of  pride.  This  was  his  district  and  his  State,  and  these 
were  his  people.  The  convention  rose  before  him,  ter- 
race on  terrace  of  colour,  but  the  crowd,  nevertheless, 
still  thickened,  always  seeking  room  for  one  more. 
Guthrie  saw  Warner  slip  in  under  the  cover  of  his 
friends,  and  take  a  seat  in  the  centre  of  the  delegation 
from  the  twelfth  ward,  where  his  presence  was  not  dis- 
covered, until  he  had  been  there  some  time,  and  thus 
the  force  of  the  blow  was  broken.  Then  an  angry  buzz 
of  comment  arose  and  filled  the  hall,  but  it  soon  died, 
because  the  convention  was  about  to  open,  and  Warner 
could  not  be  permitted  to  occupy  its  attention  now  for 
any  long  period.  Moreover,  the  great  men  were  fast 
arriving,  and  they  always  came  in  state,  a  state  which 
often  they  did  not  intend,  but  which  the  public  en- 
forced. 

There  were  the  two  United  States  Senators,  men  of 
really  large  calibre,  mentally  as  well  as  physically,  and 
well-known  throughout  the  nation,  and  Mr.  Stetson, 


280  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

more  famous  than  either,  and  an  ex-governor  of  the 
State  with  a  bushy  white  head  of  hair,  who  had  been 
a  famous  Confederate  general,  and  another  ex-governor 
of  the  State,  also  with  a  bushy  white  head  of  hair,  who 
had  been  a  famous  Federal  general.  After  these  came 
the  member  from  the  Third  District,  a  tall  man  with  a 
smoothly  shaven,  classic  face  who  was  serving  his  third 
term  as  Speaker  of  the  House,  an  office  which  the  peo- 
ple of  this  State  rank  next  to  the  presidency  itself,  and 
they  shared,  therefore,  in  the  glory  which  the  member 
from  the  Third  shed  about  him.  Hence  they  received 
him  with  applause  fully  equal  to  that  which  they  be- 
stowed upon  Mr.  Stetson,  and  after  him  came  many 
others  of  more  or  less  prominence,  each  recognised 
instantly  by  everybody,  and  each  receiving  his  share 
of  applause,  graded  in  exact  proportion  to  his  merits. 

It  was  all  like  a  big  family  gathering.  This  is  a 
peculiar  State,  not  much  affected  by  immigration,  and 
having  certain  idiosyncrasies  of  character  which  dif- 
ferentiate it  from  the  rest  of  the  Union,  but  which  bind 
its  people  more  closely  together.  It  is  said  that  mortal 
enemies  from  this  State,  if  they  meet  in  a  foreign  land, 
become  very  much  better  friends  than  they  can  ever 
be  with  anybody  around  them.  There  was  a  great 
hum  of  talk,  and  the  brightly  coloured  fans  of  the  ladies 
were  fluttering,  but  this  hum  was  soon  lost  in  the  strains 
of  popular  music  as  the  band  in  an  upper  box  began 
to  play. 

The  band  swung  into  "Dixie,"  and  a  tremendous 
shout  of  applause  was  raised.  "  Dixie  "  being  finished, 
it  passed  on  to  "Yankee  Doodle,"  and  again  a  shout 
of  applause  went  up,  though  not  so  loud  as  before.  It 
was  all  in  perfect  good  humour,  and  the  old  Confed- 


THE  CONVENTION  281 

crates,  and  the  old  Federals  sitting  in  the  audience, 
often  brother  delegates,  knee  to  knee,  began  to  ex- 
change for  the  fifteen  hundredth  time  reminiscences 
of  Antietam  and  the  Wilderness.  The  two  old  ex- 
governors,  the  Federal  and  the  Confederate,  sitting 
side  by  side  in  a  box  were  seen  to  shake  hands  vigor- 
ously in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  and  then  the 
roof  lifted  itself  up  at  least  an  inch  with  the  impact  of 
the  applause. 

As  Guthrie  glanced  over  the  audience,  he  caught  the 
eye  of  Jimmy  Warfield,  who  was  chairman  of  the  dele- 
gation from  the  sixth  ward,  who  also  was  most  zealous 
in  the  attempt  to  shelve  Warner,  believing  it  abso- 
lutely necessary,  both  in  the  interests  of  the  party  and  of 
morality.  He  gave  back  a  cheerful  smile  to  Guthrie's 
look,  but  beyond  him  were  the  eleventh  and  twelfth 
wards,  a  solid  mass  of  frowning  delegates,  bent  on  rule 
or  ruin — that  is,  either  to  nominate  Warner  or  to  bolt 
the  convention.  Now,  there  was  a  distinct  and  mani- 
fest feeling  of  hostility  on  the  part  of  the  rest  of  the 
convention  toward  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards. 
The  delegates  who  were  compelled  to  sit  nearest  the 
space  reserved  for  them,  drew  their  chairs  as  far  away 
as  possible,  and  ostentatiously  turned  their  backs. 
Mr.  Pursley  moved  from  seat  to  seat,  helping  his  friends 
and  fellow-rebels. 

The  sound  of  angry  words  arose;  the  buzz  of  fem- 
inine talk  suddenly  ceased,  and  many  fans  fluttered 
apprehensively.  It  was  apparent  that  the  convention 
should  be  called  to  order  at  once,  and  Grayson,  the 
district  committeeman,  promptly  did  so.  Then  in 
accordance  with  the  universal  custom,  prayer  was 
offered.  It  was  the  Bishop  who  prayed.  Having 


282  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

come  up  from  the  capital  on  a  visit,  he  had  been  asked 
to  serve,  a  request  with  which  he  promptly  complied. 
Never  had  Guthrie  seen  him  looking  nobler,  with  his 
fine  head  of  white  hair  and  lofty  features.  He  prayed 
for  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the  nation,  upon  the 
president,  and  upon  all  those  assembled  in  the  hall. 
When  the  prayer  was  over  he  quietly  took  a  half-hidden 
seat  at  the  rear  of  the  stage. 

Then  Grayson  quickly  gave  way  to  the  temporary 
chairman,  a  non-committal  and  negative  man  named 
Andrews,  who  could  be  depended  upon  to  pass  a  short 
and  harmless  life  in  the  chair,  yielding  in  his  turn  to 
the  permanent  chairman.  There  was  no  fight  over  the 
rules,  nor  was  there  a  single  contested  seat  among  the 
delegates,  everything  being  in  clean-cut  condition  for 
the  convention  to  proceed  at  once  to  its  business,  but 
while  the  committees  were  being  selected  the  great 
political  guns  fired  a  few  shots,  much  as  the  thirteen- 
inch  cannon  on  a  battleship  are  discharged  for  enter- 
tainment and  instruction  before  the  real  test  of  the 
smaller  calibre  rapid-fire  arms  is  made. 

The  first  call  from  the  crowd  was  for  Mr.  Stetson, 
who  was  always  doubly  welcome,  as  he  rarely  meddled 
in  local  politics,  and,  therefore,  trod  on  no  toes.  After 
him  came  the  two  ex-governors,  and  the  speaker  of  the 
National  House. 

Guthrie  left  the  table  after  the  second  speech,  and 
went  to  the  room  where  the  leaders  were  in  conference, 
securing  admittance  on  account  of  his  well-known 
grave  and  high  character,  his  deep  and  unselfish  inter- 
est in  politics,  and  the  semi-official  position  that  he  had 
achieved.  It  was  a  bleak  apartment,  used  ordinarily 
as  a  dressing-room  by  actors  or  singers  who  appeared 


THE  CONVENTION  283 

at  Music  Hall,  but  now  it  contained  the  elements  of 
civil  war. 

All  the  leaders  were  in  the  room,  and  so  were  the 
representatives  of  Headly  and  Graves,  each  with  a 
name  ready  to  be  proposed  for  the  permanent  chair- 
manship. But  the  centre  of  interest  was  a  little  red- 
faced  angry  Irishman,  O'Hara,  the  leader  of  the  War- 
ner forces.  He  was  with  his  back  to  the  wall  both 
literally  and  metaphorically,  his  doubled-up  fists  thrust 
into  the  pockets  of  his  short  sack  coat,  a  shiny  silk  hat 
tipped  back  on  his  head — all  the  others  were  hatless. 

"But  what  we  want  to  know,  Mr.  O'Hara,  is  this," 
said  Mr.  Stetson,  in  a  smooth,  polite  tone;  "what  does 
your  principal,  Mr.  Warner,  intend  to  do?  Here  are 
the  representatives  of  Mr.  Headly  and  Mr.  Graves 
speaking  for  their  principals,  and  willing  to  abide 
by  the  decision  of  the  convention,  whatever  it  may  be. 
Will  you  not  do  the  same?" 

But  O'Hara  fiercely  denounced  what  he  called  a 
lack  of  fair  play,  refused  to  agree  to  anything,  and  was 
strongly  supported  by  Mr.  Pursley,  who  adopted  a 
smoother  manner.  That  ended  the  conference  and  the 
attempt  at  peace. 

O'Hara  resumed  his  seat  among  the  twelfth  ward 
delegates,  a  motion  to  adjourn  until  two  o'clock  was 
made,  seconded  and  carried  without  opposition,  and 
the  convention  adjourned,  the  spectators  going  out 
amid  a  great  murmur  of  talk,  the  rustle  of  summer 
dresses,  and  the  fluttering  of  fans. 

It  would  be  two  hours  now  until  the  convention  met 
again,  but  much  might  be  done  in  two  hours,  and 
everybody  intended  that  much  should  be  done. 

The  first  step  of  the  leaders  was  to  suggest  Mr.  Stet- 


284  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

son  for  permanent  chairman.  He  was  an  editor,  not 
directly  a  politician,  and  not  even  the  Warnerites 
would  dare  to  accuse  him,  the  idol  of  the  State,  of 
unfairness  in  his  rulings.  This  is  a  State  which  loves 
its  great  men,  and  it  would  brook  no  such  insult  to 
Mr.  Stetson.  There  were  limits  which  O'Hara  him- 
self would  not  dare  to  pass.  The  case  was  put  at  once 
before  Mr.  Stetson,  and  reluctantly  he  accepted. 

Music  Hall  was  filled  long  before  two  o'clock  when 
the  convention  was  to  meet  again.  The  women  and 
the  girls  came  as  in  the  morning  in  their  pretty  sum- 
mer dresses,  only  they  were  yet  more  numerous  now, 
and  the  audience  as  seen  by  those  on  the  stage  reminded 
them,  with  increasing  vividness,  of  a  great  rose  garden 
of  colour.  They  even  overflowed  the  space,  railed  off 
for  the  delegates  who  with  true  gallantry  crowded 
themselves  together  to  make  room,  because  conven- 
tions in  this  State  being  always  social  and  spectacular, 
as  well  as  political,  the  rights  of  spectators  are  thor- 
oughly recognised. 

The  crowds  in  the  aisles,  too,  were  so  dense  that 
Guthrie  and  the  other  members  of  the  press  had  great 
difficulty  in  making  their  way  to  the  stage.  Again  the 
big  building  resounded  with  the  hum  of  many  voices 
and  the  flutter  of  a  forest  of  painted  fans.  All  the 
windows  were  thrown  open  to  admit  the  fresh  air. 

The  temporary  chairman  called  the  convention  to 
order  and  announced  that  nominations  for  permanent 
chairman  would  now  be  made.  The  words  were 
scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  before  Jimmy  Warfield  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  presented  the  name  of  Mr.  Stetson. 

The  nomination  came  as  a  surprise  to  all  except  the 
leaders,  and  was  much  the  more  effective  on  that  ac- 


THE  CONVENTION  285 

count.  The  roar  of  applause  from  both  delegates  and 
audience  was  so  spontaneous,  so  swelling  that  nothing 
could  withstand  it.  Guthrie  glanced  down  toward 
the  camp  of  the  insurgents,  the  delegates  from  the 
eleventh  and  twelfth  wards,  and  he  saw  the  faces  of 
Warner,  O'Hara,  and  those  nearest  them  fall.  They 
were,  in  fact,  taken  unawares  and  swept  off  their  feet. 
Some  one  jumped  up  and  made  a  motion  that  Mr. 
Stetson  be  nominated  by  acclamation.  The  motion 
was  seconded,  and  then  it  was  carried  at  once,  amid 
thunderous  applause,  although  there  was  a  sullen 
silence  on  the  part  of  the  rebellious  gentlemen  represent- 
ing the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards. 

Mr.  Stetson  was  escorted  to  the  chair,  and  made  a 
short  speech,  according  to  custom. 

Then,  the  people  bent  forward  in  their  seats.  The 
combat  was  about  to  begin,  and  they  were  in  it,  heart 
and  soul. 

The  chairman,  the  man  who  was  now  to  rule  the 
battle,  settled  himself  fairly  in  his  seat,  his  square 
shoulders  and  massive  chest  rising  up  like  a  stone 
tower.  With  a  slight  motion  of  his  left  hand,  he  threw 
back  the  thick  gray  hair  from  his  brow,  and  then  swept 
the  convention  with  one  keen,  comprehensive  glance. 

Up  sprang  Timothy  O'Hara,  delegate  from  the 
twelfth  ward,  standing  amid  the  faithful  crowd  of  his 
henchmen,  and  nominated  with  orotund  speech  the 
Honourable  Henry  Clay  Warner,  the  friend  and  cham- 
pion of  the  people. 

The  delegates  from  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards 
moved  by  a  common  impulse  sprang  to  their  feet,  and 
uttering  tremendous  shouts  waved  their  hats  and 
stamped  the  floor.  "Warner!"  "Warnerl"  they 


286 


cried.  The  rest  of  the  convention  was  cold  and 
silent. 

Then  the  names  of  Headly  and  Graves  in  turn  were 
put  before  the  convention  by  their  lieutenants  in 
speeches  in  which  their  merits  and  their  necessity  to 
the  State  were  proclaimed. 

The  last  nomination  was  finished,  the  last  sound  of 
applause  died,  and  the  forces  now  stood  upon  the 
battlefield,  horse,  foot,  and  guns,  each  in  its  proper 
place  ready  for  action. 

A  throb  ran  through  the  convention,  delegates  and 
spectators  alike.  A  great  murmur  arose  as  people 
began  to  whisper  to  each  other.  Down  in  the  two 
rebellious  wards  the  delegates  looked  anxious,  and 
O'Hara  closely  scanned  the  convention. 

Right  here  was  a  critical  moment.  The  convention 
could  now  proceed  by  either  of  two  methods:  it  could 
adopt  a  resolution  to  drop  the  weakest  candidate  after 
the  third  ballot,  and  continue  to  a  choice,  or  continue 
as  they  stood  to  a  choice.  The  first  was  sure  to  cause 
the  bolt  of  the  Warnerites,  as  he  was  obviously  the 
weakest  of  the  three,  and  there  were  votes  enough  at 
any  time  to  adopt  the  resolution. 

The  temptation  among  the  younger  men  to  offer  the 
resolution,  and  "put  Warner  out  of  business,"  as  they 
termed  it,  was  strong,  but  the  hands  of  the  cool  and 
wary  leaders  held  the  bridle,  and  they  pulled  back  on 
the  bit.  They  did  not  wish  merely  to  win  here — that 
in  itself  would  be  a  bootless  triumph, — but  to  win  at 
the  November  election,  unscarred,  and  with  no  feud 
behind  them.  What  they  wanted  now,  as  ever,  was 
time,  time,  time,  in  which  something  might  happen. 

The  resolution  was  not  offered.     O'Hara  saw  nobody 


THE  CONVENTION  287 

rise  to  his  feet  with  a  threat  in  his  eye.  He,  too,  did 
not  want  the  resolution.  Neither  he  nor  Warner 
wished  a  bolt;  that  they  would  take  as  a  last  resort, 
hoping  in  preference  to  wear  the  convention  out,  and 
by  sheer  obstinacy  and  perversity  force  the  nomina- 
tion of  Warner  in  the  end,  thus  saving  to  themselves 
the  colour  of  regularity. 

This  anxious  pause — anxious  for  both  sides — was 
over,  and  the  chairman  ordered  the  first  ballot.  The 
vote  was  cast  by  wards — twelve  in  all— but  the  number 
of  votes  allowed  to  each  ward  was  proportioned  to  its 
population,  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  having  the  most. 

The  total  number  of  votes  in  the  convention  was  332. 

The  vote  of  each  ward  was  cast  by  its  chairman  of 
delegates,  and  the  clerk  in  a  mechanical  voice  an- 
nounced the  result: 

Headly 136 

Graves 124 

Warner . .  72 


To  be  nominated,  a  candidate  must  receive  a  majority 
of  all  the  votes  cast,  nobody  had  received  such  a  major- 
ity, and,  therefore,  nobody  was  nominated. 

A  second  ballot  was  taken,  and  a  third,  and  a  fourth, 
always  with  the  same  result.  So  fixed  and  immutable 
was  the  vote  that  not  a  single  figure  was  changed. 

The  convention  was  in  a  dead-lock. 

The  afternoon  waned,  none  of  the  audience  left, 
everybody  hoping  that  something  would  happen,  and 
the  monotony,  too,  being  relieved  now  and  then  by 
passages  at  arms  between  the  delegates  on  whose  tem- 
per the  fight  was  beginning  to  wear. 


288  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

The  day  was  near  its  end.  Guthrie  glancing  through 
a  rear  window  of  the  hall  saw  again  the  wide  yellow 
river,  and  the  hills  beyond,  their  green,  now  shaded  into 
purple  and  gold,  and  rose  by  the  sunset  shadows. 
Then  he  looked  back  once  more  at  the  battlefield  be- 
fore him,  and  wondered  how  it  would  end. 

The  sixth  ballot  was  just  finished,  and  the  clerk  in 
that  cold  mechanical  voice  like  a  sound  coming  from 
a  phonograph,  announced  the  same  result. 

Then  Jimmy  Warfield  made  a  motion  to  adjourn 
until  the  next  morning,  the  motion  was  seconded,  and, 
the  recalcitrants  raising  no  objection,  it  was  carried 
unanimously. 

The  convention  broke  up  for  the  day,  and  the  people 
passed  slowly  out  of  the  hall,  talking  over  what  had 
happened. 

The  sun  set  on  the  first  day's  fighting  and  it  was  a 
drawn  battle,  but  a  second  day  was  soon  to  come,  and 
the  night  between  would  be  filled  with  such  work  as 
the  Old  Fourth  had  never  seen  before.  Pale  and  de- 
termined the  leaders  slipped  quietly  from  the  hall. 

That  was  a  memorable  night  in  the  Old  Fourth, 
and  the  people  felt  alike  the  danger  and  the  honour. 
They  were  not  out  of  the  hall  before  the  telegraph  wires 
were  sending  the  news  all  over  the  United  States.  This 
was  a  pivotal  district;  always  so  reliable,  it  had  sud- 
denly become  doubtful,  and  every  newspaper  in  the 
Union  had  said  so.  Hence  all  eyes  were  turned  that 
way. 

Guthrie  left  the  convention  hall  with  Clarice,  and 
together  they  walked  down  the  street.  The  sun  had 
gone  behind  the  hills  and  the  cool  of  the  evening  had 
come.  She  had  thrown  a  light  shawl  over  he?  shoul- 


THE  CONVENTION  289 

ders,  but  otherwise  she  was  all  in  white,  and  to  Guth- 
rie  she  seemed  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  women 
who  had  been  in  the  hall. 

He  knew  himself  as  he  was.  He  loved  her.  The 
Count  was  gone,  out  of  the  way,  and  he  was  sure  that 
she  did  not  hate  him.  Then  why  not  speak?  But 
Guthrie  thought  again  of  the  difference  in  their  mate- 
rial fortunes.  She  was  a  great  heiress,  and  he,  how- 
ever much  people  liked  him,  and  however  well  he  stood 
in  his  own  profession,  could  not  look  forward  to  any 
great  pecuniary  success.  He  might  get  the  Washing- 
ton bureau  of  the  Times,  but  even  then  he  would  be  in 
no  position  to  ask  her  to  marry  him.  She  might  re- 
fuse him,  she  probably  would,  but  he  had  no  right  to 
put  her  to  the  proof. 

His  usually  sanguine  and  optimistic  temperament 
was  afflicted  with  a  few  moments  of  painful  melancholy, 
but  then  he  resolutely  cast  it  aside,  and  would  not  let 
her  see. 

The  summer  night  came  down  swiftly  over  the  city, 
but  the  electric  lights  twinkled  through  the  dusk,  and 
threw  a  silver  shadow  across  the  sidewalks.  The 
streets  were  full  of  people,  and  many  bowed  to  Guth- 
rie and  Clarice,  as  they  walked  on  together. 

They  walked  among  friends,  and  now  and  then 
some  one  asked  Guthrie  what  he  thought  the  result 
of  the  fight  in  the  Old  Fourth  would  be,  but  he 
always  shook  his  head  and  maintained  his  ignorance; 
he  would  state  his  hopes,  but  he  preferred  not  to 
predict. 

Guthrie  had  no  notion  of  quitting  the  field  of  battle 
until  the  next  day — he  was  too  good  a  soldier  for  that, 
knowing  how  important  the  night  would  be.  But  again, 


290  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

like  the  good  soldier,  he  would  eat  and  refresh  himself 
before  the  contest,  and,  leaving  Clarice  at  her  father's 
door,  he  hurried  home  for  that  purpose. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  a  hasty  dinner  before  a 
message  came,  and  he  hurried  away  ready  to  do  his  part 
in  the  strenuous  conflict. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 
THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT 

ON  a  quiet  street  was  a  quiet  little  office,  where  a  man 
with  a  heavy  jaw  often  sat  thinking.  He  was  Hays, 
familiarly  known  as  the  "  boss,"  in  reality  a  hard  political 
worker,  who  took  little  reward,  giving  his  services  from 
pure  love  of  the  life.  He  was  in  many  respects  a 
rough  man,  and  perhaps,  in  some,  a  trifle  harsh.  He 
had  had  a  hard  time,  having  been  born  in  the  gut- 
ter, and  the  successful  struggle  to  emerge  from  it  left 
scars.  But  he  was  wonderfully  kind  to  his  wife  and 
children,  for  whom  he  obtained  advantages  that  had 
been  denied  to  himself,  and  his  friends  always  found 
him  as  true  as  steel — he  made  no  secret  of  hating  his 
enemies. 

Hays  was  not  alone  to-night,  Grayson,  Avery, 
Jimmy  Warfield,  and  several  other  workers  in  the  cause 
being  with  him. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  next  moment 
Guthrie  entered.  All  were  pleased  to  see  him  and 
greeted  him  warmly. 

"  We  want  you  to  take  Warner  out  for  a  ride,"  said 
Warfield.  "Tell  him  you've  got  something  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  say  about  this  fight,  which  is  the 
truth.  Take  a  carriage  and  drive  out  toward  the  coun- 
try— say,  on  the  waterworks  road,  and  the  later  you  get 
back  the  better.  One  of  Hays'  men  will  be  your  driver 

291 


292  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

and  he  will  understand.  Can't  you  do  it?  You  see 
how  much  is  at  stake." 

Guthrie  thought  for  a  little  while  and  then  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  although  he  announced  that  he  would 
deal  with  Warner  in  perfect  fairness.  A  trip  together 
seemed  to  him  entirely  legitimate,  falling  within 
the  limits  of  moral  suasion.  "The  carriage  is 
waiting  at  the  corner,"  said  Hays,  "and  you'd  better 
go  right  away.  He'll  be  rising  from  the  table  in  five 
minutes." 

Guthrie  had  grown  up  in  a  stern  school,  and  he  wasted 
no  more  time  in  words.  Bidding  them  good-night,  he 
started.  The  carriage,  as  Hays  had  said,  was  waiting 
at  the  door,  and  Guthrie  delayed  only  to  glance  up  at 
the  driver  on  the  seat.  It  was  Jim  Curley,  one  of  Hays' 
best  workers,  a  man  well  known  to  Guthrie  for  courage 
and  fertile  resource. 

Warner's  home  was  not  far  away,  and  in  less  than 
five  minutes  Guthrie  was  there,  just  as  the  front  door 
opened,  and  Warner  himself  appeared.  Guthrie  judged 
that  the  member  intended  to  go  down  town  and  meet 
O'Hara,  and  he  knew  he  must  act  quickly.  Behind 
Warner  appeared  the  face  of  a  woman,  that  of  Mrs. 
Warner. 

"I  was  just  coming  to  see  you,  Mr.  Warner,"  ex- 
claimed Guthrie,  leaping  out  of  the  carriage.  "I've 
got  something  important  to  say.  Get  in  with  me,  will 
you,  and  we  can  drive  along  while  we  talk." 

Warner  hesitated. 

"O'Hara's  waiting  for  me,"  he  said,  "and  I  guess 
you've  talked  enough  already,  Billy." 

Mrs.  Warner  looked  at  Guthrie  with  approval  and 
said: 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          293 

"I'd  go  with  him,  Henry,  if  I  were  you.  Let  Mr. 
O'Hara  wait." 

Guthrie  inferred  that  Mrs.  Warner  did  not  approve 
of  either  O'Hara  or  her  husband's  course  in  the  con- 
vention, and  taking  advantage  of  the  impression  made 
by  her  words,  he  put  his  hand  upon  the  member's  arm 
and  half  pulled  him  into  the  carriage,  saying  a  polite 
good  evening  to  Mrs.  Warner  as  he  shut  the  carriage 
door. 

"All  right,  driver,"  he  said  to  Curley,  "go  ahead  1" 

Curley  cracked  his  whip  over  two  fine  horses  and  they 
spun  along  at  a  great  rate  through  the  city  and  out  upon 
the  waterworks  road.  It  was  an  open  carriage,  and  the 
fresh  breeze  created  by  the  rapid  motion  was  wonder- 
fully pleasant  and  invigorating  after  the  heat  and  tur- 
moil of  the  day.  Warner,  who  seemed  to  have  fallen 
into  a  sort  of  collapse  after  a  long  period  of  excitement 
and  stimulated  strength,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  enjoyed  it  to  the  full.  As  Guthrie  looked 
at  his  broad  red  face,  the  old  feeling  of  mingled  con- 
tempt and  pity  for  this  sodden  man  rose  in  him,  unbid- 
den. 

It  was  indeed  an  evening  to  lull  a  tired  man — this 
wonderful  June  dusk  that  sometimes  falls  over  this  city 
with  the  scent  of  roses  in  the  air,  and  the  faint  sighing 
breeze  that  comes  up  from  a  far  wilderness,  bringing  its 
hint  of  deep  woods  and  wild  grass  untrodden  by  man 
It  is  said  that  all  the  young  couples  in  this  city  get  en- 
gaged on  such  summer  evenings  as  these. 

Guthrie,  too,  felt  the  peace  of  the  evening  and  the 
night  wind's  cradle-song.  It  seemed  to  him  so  unfitting 
a  time  for  the  strenuous  task  that  he  and  his  friends  had 
to  do.  Down  the  cross-street  he  saw  again  the  wide 


294  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

yellow  river — now  silver  under  the  light  of  the  clear 
stars,  but  the  green  hills  on  the  far  shore  were  hidden 
in  the  mists  and  dusk. 

They  were  away  now  from  the  business  part  of  the 
city,  passing  toward  the  region  of  smaller  houses.  The 
electric  lights  twinkled  at  far  intervals,  and  cottage 
windows  already  were  darkening  as  the  sober  inhabitants 
sought  their  early  beds.  They  met  scarcely  a  human 
being;  the  noise  of  the  city  was  dead  behind  them,  the 
wheels  of  the  carriage  rolled  smoothly  over  the  asphalt, 
and  they  heard  only  the  sighing  of  that  glorious  June 
breeze  about  their  ears,  making  soft  harmonies,  as  if  it 
were  playing  upon  invisible  violin  strings. 

The  houses  moved  far  apart,  the  asphalt  often  ran 
between  turfy  fields,  and  off  on  the  left  hung  the  shadow 
of  a  forest.  They  were  reaching  the  country. 

The  silent  driver  on  the  seat  looked  back  once  at  his 
two  passengers,  but  neither  Guthrie  nor  Warner  noticed 
it,  so  much  interested  were  they  in  what  they  were  say- 
ing. The  driver  was  still  silent  and  merely  looked 
straight  ahead  again,  where  the  loom  of  a  mighty  wall 
arose,  a  deeper  dark  against  the  dusk. 

It  was  one  side  of  the  great  reservoir  of  the  water- 
works, a  wall  many  yards  high  and  a  full  quarter  of  a 
mile  long.  They  were  now  five  miles  from  the  city  and 
this  was  the  turning-back  place,  but  Curley,  glancing  up 
at  the  wall,  and  then  at  his  absorbed  passengers,  calmly 
left  the  road  which  ran  beside  it  and  turned  into  a  nar- 
rower road  leading  toward  the  South.  A  wise  man  was 
Curley,  and  he  knew  his  business,  which  often  was  to 
act  first  and  to  explain — not  at  all. 

"  Why,  where  are  we  ?"  suddenly  asked  Warner,  look- 
ing up. 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          295' 

Guthrie  glanced  about  him,  and  he  did  not  know 
either. 

"Oh,  the  driver  is  taking  us  along  some  new  road, 
he  replied  carelessly  and  honestly.  "I  wouldn't  bother 
about  it." 

"We  must  return  at  once,"  said  Warner  decidedly. 
"Turn  around  and  drive  back,  and  drive  back  quick 

tool" 

"All  right,"  said  Curley  in  the  same  indifferent  tone, 
and  wheeling  his  horses  he  began  the  return  journey  in  a 
trot.  When  he  had  gone  about  a  mile,  he  came  to  a 
place  where  the  road  forked  and  he  took  the  wrong  fork, 
although  neither  Guthrie  nor  Warner  knew  it,  continuing 
in  a  trot  toward  the  southeast  and  away  from  the  city. 
Guthrie  and  the  member  had  begun  a  conversation  in 
regard  to  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  fight  in  the  Old 
Fourth,  and  again  Guthrie  was  seeking  earnestly  to  con- 
vert Warner. 

Deeper  and  deeper  they  went  into  the  forest, 
road  grew  duskier  and  Warner  at  last  noticed  their 
strange  pathway. 

"Why,  where  are  we?"  he  exclaimed,  straightening 
up  in  surprise.  ''I  don't  remember  ever  to  have  seen 
this  place  before.  Say,  driver,  where  are  you  taking 

us?" 

Curley  glanced  back— he  was  unknown  personally 
to  Warner— and  replied  with  the  phlegmatic  calm  that 
had  marked  him  all  along: 

"It's  just  a  short  cut  that  I'm  taking  through 
woods.     You  said  you  were  in  a  hurry  and  I'm  trying 
to  save  time." 

"Oh!  it's  all  right  then,"  said  Warner,  and 
lapsed  again  into  talk  and  content. 


296  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Another  half-hour  passed,  and  the  road  led  among 
small  hills,  but  still  in  dense  forest,  the  way  darkened 
by  overhanging  boughs,  and  the  misty  bars  of  moonlight 
becoming  less  numerous.  Then  Warner's  mind  turned 
again  to  the  subject  of  the  return,  and  taking  out  his 
watch  he  looked  at  it  with  alarm. 

"See  here,"  he  exclaimed  to  the  driver,  "at  this  rate 
we  won't  get  home  before  midnight.  You  told  me  that 
you  were  taking  a  short  cut,  and  if  this  is  the  short  one 
I  wonder  what  the  long  one  can  be." 

The  driver  with  a  pull  upon  the  lines  stopped  the 
horses  and  then  turned  a  calm,  unruffled  countenance 
to  Warner. 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "but  we  are  lost." 

"  Lost  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Warner. 

"It's  just  as  I  say,"  replied  Curley  easily.  "You 
said  you  wanted  to  get  back  quick,  and  I  was  anxious  to 
do  it  for  you.  So  I  took  this  short  cut  across  the  hills, 
thinking  it  would  be  dead  easy,  but  I've  got  so  tangled 
up  here  in  the  woods  that  I  don't  know  where  I  am.  It 
jars  me  to  have  to  confess  it,  but  it's  so,  and  I'll  have  to 
call  on  one  of  you  gents  to  show  the  way  out." 

Guthrie  observed  Curley  closely,  and  such  was  the 
man's  earnestness  of  tone  that  he  was  unable  to  decide 
about  him.  But  Warner  had  no  doubts.  Nevertheless 
he  was  aghast;  and  Guthrie,  too,  was  uneasy. 

"Billy,  do  you  know  the  way  out?"  cried  Warner. 

Guthrie  looked  anxiously  at  the  dark  woods,  just  as 
Warner  had  done,  and  was  forced  to  shake  his  head  in 
the  negative. 

"We've  got  to  figure  on  it  somehow  or  other,  Mr. 
Warner,"  he  said. 

After  holding  a  short  conference,  they  decided  that  it 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          297 

would  be  better  to  turn  back,  and  they  drove  over  their 
own  tracks  at  a  brisk  pace.  But  there  was  also  a  fork 
in  this  road  on  the  return  journey,  and  the  cabman  again 
took  the  wrong  fork,  driving  into  it  with  such  speed  and 
certainty  that  neither  Guthrie  or  Warner  ever  doubted 
for  a  moment  that  it  was  the  right  one. 

The  road  now  led  directly  away  from  the  city  and  still 
passed  through  a  deep  forest. 

The  night,  far  advanced,  darkened  considerably, 
the  moon  being  hid  most  of  the  time  by  shifting  clouds, 
while  the  road,  as  before,  was  overshadowed  by  the  long 
boughs  and  dense  foliage  of  the  trees. 

They  ceased  now  to  talk  as  they  drove  slowly  on,  and 
a  certain  awe  laid  hold  of  Guthrie,  who  had  never  before 
been  lost  in  the  forest  in  the  night.  The  silence  was  so 
deep,  save  for  a  moaning  of  the  wind  through  the  leaves 
and  the  far  hoot  of  an  owl,  that  it  oppressed  heart  and 
brain  alike.  The  giant  tree-trunks  marched  by  in 
ordered  rows  like  phantoms  of  the  dusk,  and  here  and 
there  a  knot-hole  or  a  convolution  of  the  bark  was  dis- 
torted into  a  mocking  face  like  a  ghostly  light.  The 
boughs,  too,  waved  at  him  as  if  deriding  him,  and 
sometimes  a  soft  and  leaf-covered  twig  switching  across 
his  face  as  he  passed  made  him  quiver. 

The  gloom  and  immensity  of  the  wilderness  had  taken 
hold  of  Guthrie  as  it  takes  hold  of  many  in  its  depths, 
although  he  was  not  fifteen  miles  from  a  city  of  200,000 
inhabitants. 

The  driver  suddenly  started  in  his  seat,  although 
neither  Guthrie  nor  Warner  noticed  the  movement,  and 
bent  his  head  a  little  aside  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
listens  intently. 

He  listened  for  a  full  minute.    Then  he  straightened 


298  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

himself  up  in  his  seat  and  from  him  burst  one  sharp, 
sibilant  exclamation: 

"Gee!" 

At  the  same  moment  his  cigar  was  dashed  from  his 
teeth  and  the  burning  end  struck  one  of  the  horses  on 
the  back.  The  animal  neighed,  reared,  and  then  draw- 
ing his  mate  with  him,  ran  away  down  the  smooth,  hard 
road.  Curley  swore,  set  his  shoulders  as  one  does  when 
he  pulls  hard,  but  the  lines  hung  loose  over  the  backs  of 
his  horses. 

Both  Guthrie  and  Warner  were  much  startled  at  this 
sudden  action  of  the  horses,  which  threw  them  violently 
against  the  carriage,  although  the  soft  cushions  saved 
them  from  bruises. 

"What's  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Guthrie  to  the 
driver. 

Curley  did  not  look  back.  He  was  too  busy  for  that, 
but  he  shot  over  his  shoulder  in  response  just  two  illu- 
minating words:  "Running  away!" 

The  country  now  began  to  open  out  somewhat,  the 
trees  moved  farther  apart,  and  the  filtering  bands  of 
moonlight  grew  broader. 

On  they  sped,  the  carriage  swinging  from  side  to  side 
and  half  bounding  over  the  rough  places,  but  under 
Curley's  sure  guidance  remaining  in  the  centre  of  the 
road,  That  worthy  never  ceased  for  a  moment  the 
peculiar  see-saw  motion  so  irritating  to  the  mouth  of  a 
horse. 

It  was  like  a  race,  with  the  cool  night  air  fresh  on  their 
faces,  the  trees  running  in  the  other  direction,  and  the 
regular  beat  of  the  horses'  feet  on  the  smooth,  gravelled 
road  making  a  harmonious  sound.  Once,  at  the 
top  of  a  rise,  the  driver  bent  his  right  ear  down  again  as 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT 

if  he  were  listening,  and  then  that  look  of  apprehension 
came  over  his  face  a  second  time.  When  he  straightened 
up  a  little,  his  horses  were  going  faster  than  ever. 

It  seemed  to  Guthrie  as  they  passed  down  the  slight 
slope  and  into  the  level  beyond  that  he,  too,  heard  a 
faint,  far  noise  behind  them,  a  sound  like  the  echo  of  the 
beat  of  their  own  horses'  feet;  and  an  echo  he  thought 
it  was  at  first,  but  it  grew  too  distinct  by  and  by — it  had 
about  it  too  much  of  solid  reality  to  be  an  echo,  and 
when  they  reached  soon  the  crest  of  another  little  rise, 
he  looked  back  again. 

Guthrie  almost  started  from  his  seat  in  surprise  at 
what  he  saw.  There  on  the  summit  of  the  swell  behind 
them,  the  one  they  had  just  left,  focussed  in  the  moon- 
light was  another  carriage,  and  it,  too,  had  been  driven 
hot  and  fast,  for  even  at  the  distance  Guthrie  could  see 
the  horses  in  a  lather. 

But  it  was  not  the  horses,  it  was  the  man  behind  them 
on  the  seat  beside  the  driver  who  interested  Guthrie. 
The  face  of  this  man  was  red  like  the  setting  sun,  and 
tipped  low  down  on  his  forehead  was  a  silk  hat,  so 
glossy  that  it  gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  Guthrie 
believed  he  would  have  known  that  face  and  figure 
even  were  there  no  moonlight.  It  was  O'Hara.  The 
doubts  that  had  been  forming  in  Guthrie's  mind  became 
almost  a  certainty,  but  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Meanwhile  their  carriage  sped  on. 

They  topped  another  swell  presently,  and  Guthrie 
again  glanced  back.  Great  was  his  joy  despite  himself, 
when  he  did  not  see  O'Hara,  and  however  attentively 
he  listened,  he  failed  to  hear  the  beat  of  pursuing  hoofs. 

Curley,  too,  who  had  a  keener  or  better  trained  ear 
than  Guthrie,  ceased  to  hear  the  sounds  of  pursuit,  and 


300  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

gradually  slackened  the  speed  of  his  horses.  He  also 
turned  them  into  another  by-road  and  presently  brought 
them  down  to  a  walk.  At  last  he  stopped  the  carriage 
in  the  centre  of  a  wide,  open  space,  and  springing  out, 
began  to  soothe  the  horses  and  rub  them  down  with 
great  care. 

Warner,  who  seemed  to  be  somewhat  carried  away 
by  the  rapid  swing  of  events,  the  knowledge  of  pursuit 
not  having  come  to  his  heavy  understanding,  opened 
his  watch. 

"Billy,"  he  said  to  Guthrie,  "do  you  know  what  time 
it  is?" 

"No,  and  I  couldn't  guess  either." 

"It's  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  wonder  what 
O'Hara  thinks  has  become  of  me!" 

"We  must  let  the  horses  rest  at  least  half  an  hour 
longer,"  said  Curley,  "because  they  are  dead  beat,  I  tell 
you." 

At  the  end  of  that  time  they  started  again,  Guthrie 
and  Curley  walking  beside  the  carriage  and  Warner 
riding  in  it. 

They  went  on,  perhaps  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in 
this  manner,  and  saw  no  sign  of  a  human  habitation. 
Warner  fell  asleep,  and  Guthrie  and  Curley  began  to 
look  around  for  a  farm-house,  where  they  might  find 
breakfast,  as  day  was  approaching. 

Guthrie  was  growing  cold  and  weak.  The  long 
strain  and  the  lack  of  rest  and  food  were  telling  even 
upon  one  so  young  and  vigorous.  Moreover,  in  the 
chilly  dawn — chilly  despite  the  June  morning,  the 
comic  element  of  the  situation  passed  from  him  and  now 
he  saw  only  the  tragic.  He  was  a  man  of  honourable 
and  high  motives,  one  who  loved  frank  and  open  deal- 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          301 

ing  and  who  disliked  secret  and  underground  methods. 
When  he  took  Warner  driving  the  evening  before,  it  was 
his  purpose  merely  to  reason  with  him  and  to  keep  him 
as  long  as  possible  away  from  the  evil  influence  of 
O'Hara.  What  had  happened  since  was  due  to  a  chain 
of  circumstances  and  events  over  whjch  he  had  no  con- 
trol, and  he  was  sincerely  sorry  that  it  had  happened 
at  all.  He  would  certainly  aid  Warner  as  best  he  could 
in  his  effort  to  get  back  to  the  city  as  soon  as  possible. 
At  any  rate,  their  present  position  was  not  his  fault. 

They  trudged  along,  neither  Guthrie  nor  Curley 
speaking  for  a  while,  and  a  gray  tint  in  the  East  deep- 
ened. Then  it  turned  suddenly  to  flaming  gold,  and 
the  sun  shot  up,  flooding  the  heavens  with  rosy  light. 
The  summer  morn  had  come,  and  after  the  chill  of  the 
long  hours  before  the  dawn,  the  warmth  and  light  were 
pleasant  to  Guthrie* 

They  saw  presently  a  house  amid  the  fields,  a  two- 
story,  wooden  structure  of  plain  appearance,  where 
they  obtained  food,  and  learned  that  they  were  at  least 
thirty  miles  from  the  city.  Willville,  on  the  D.  &  S., 
was  the  nearest  railroad  station,  though  there  was  no 
train  due  for  the  city  until  3:30  in  the  afternoon,  and 
it  was  more  likely  to  be  4:30,  the  D.  &  S.  being  a 
second-rate  branch  road. 

Warner  saw  no  alternative  but  to  go  to  the  railroad 
station  and  wait  for  the  train,  and  he  resigned 
himself  with  curious  facility.  The  road  was  now 
rough,  but  neither  Warner  nor  Guthrie  complained, 
as  they  were  sustained  by  recent  food  and  the  morning 
was  so  fresh  and  clear.  They  talked  of  the  convention, 
and  Warner  seemed  to  assume  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  O'Hara  was  keeping  his  name  before  it.  More- 


302  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

over,  he  spoke  of  drawing  votes  from  Headly  and  Graves 
in  the  course  of  the  balloting.  But  his  talk  seemed  to 
Guthrie  to  lack  spirit  and  fire,  as  if  he  did  not  wholly 
believe  what  he  was  saying,  and  was  talking  in  order 
to  convince  a  somewhat  incredulous  listener — himself, 
Henry  Clay  Warner. 

They  came  to  an  extremely  rough  place  in  the  road, 
and  Curley  picked  his  way  through  it.  Guthrie  was 
dreaming — that  is,  thinking  of  things  thirty  miles  away, 
and  he  saw  vaguely  a  large  log  lying  diagonally  across 
one-half  the  width  of  the  road.  Curley  turned  his 
horses,  but  not  in  time;  the  front  wheels  hit  the  log 
with  a  heavy  jolt,  passed  over  it  and  came  down  again 
on  the  other  side  with  a  jolt  yet  heavier.  Warner  and 
Guthrie  felt  the  spring  of  the  carriage  smash  under 
them  with  the  force  of  the  impact. 

"The  carriage  has  broken  down,"  said  Curley, 
"and  it's  for  you  gents  to  pay  me." 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later,"  replied  Warner. 
"What  I  want  to  know  now  is  how  we  are  to  get  to 
Willville." 

"Walk!"  said  Curley  sententiously  and  impolitely. 

Warner  sighed  deeply.  He  was  a  slothful  man  and 
disliked  physical  exercise,  but  no  freedom  of  choice 
was  left  to  him. 

"Luck  with  you,  gents,"  called  Curley  with  grim 
humour.  "I'll  come  on  behind  with  the  carriage." 

Guthrie  may  forget  the  trials  of  that  walk,  but 
Warner  never  will.  It  gave  him  more  muscular  ex- 
ercise than  he  had  known  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  as 
the  afternoon  grew  warm  and  the  sun  shone  brightly 
he  panted  and  perspired.  They  saw  at  last  from  the 
top  of  a  hill  a  church  spire  in  the  far  distance. 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          303 

"Willville!"  exclaimed  Warner  joyfully. 

A  long,  shrill,  but  lonesome  note  rose  on  the  air, 
and  assailed  their  ears.  They  gazed  at  each  other 
in  dismay. 

"It's  the  3:30!"  gasped  Warner,  "and  it's  on  time!" 

The  noise  of  the  distant  train  ceased  for  about  a 
minute,  indicating  the  stop  at  Willville,  then  began 
again  and  was  lost  at  last  in  the  distance.  They  had 
missed  the  3:30. 

Warner  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  disappoint- 
ment, and  Guthrie  observed  with  interest  the  curious 
development  of  his  character.  He  had  always  known 
that  Warner  was  a  coarse  man — one  in  whom  the  finer 
instincts  were  lacking.  Mental  excitement  caused 
him  to  deteriorate,  but  a  physical  strain  had  the  re- 
verse effect.  Put  now  next  to  the  soil,  with  an  en- 
forced absence  from  the  stimulants  that  he  loved, 
Warner  seemed  to  improve  like  an  animal  of  a  differ- 
ent order  returned  to  his  natural  state. 

"Hey,  you  fellers,  why  ain't  you  pullin'  on  for  that 
train?" 

It  was  Curley  coming  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the 
horses  with  the  carriage  following  slowly. 

"The  3:30  passed  half  an  hour  ago,"  replied  Warner. 

Then,  the  procession  took  up  its  line  of  march  again, 
and  passed  on,  Warner  leading,  Guthrie  next,  and 
after  him  Curley,  who  was  followed  by  the  horses  and 
the  carriage.  Thus  they  passed  into  the  village  amid 
the  deep  and  outspoken  curiosity  of  the  population, 
a  curiosity  to  which  neither  Warner  nor  Guthrie  vouch- 
safed an  answer  whatever  Curley  may  have  done. 

Warner  and  Guthrie  went  first  to  the  station  and 
inquired  about  the  next  train  to  the  city.  There  was 


304  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

an  accommodation  freight  at  8:30,  very  slow,  taking 
two  hours  for  the  thirty  miles  to  the  city,  but  it  would 
get  them  there  at  last,  if  they  only  had  patience — 
plenty  of  patience. 

"Patience  is  about  all  I've  got  left,"  said  Warner. 

"We  can  telegraph,  telling  our  people  where  we 
are,"  said  Guthrie,  "and  you  can  wire,  too,  your 
instructions  to  your  delegation  in  the  convention." 

"Billy,"  said  Warner  emphatically,  "not  a  word 
of  mine  shall  touch  a  telegraph  wire.  Don't  you 
think  I'm  going  to  wire  to  that  convention  that  I'm 
stuck  out  here  in  the  woods!  Why  it  would  take  a 
message  as  long  as  a  page  of  the  Times  to  explain  it 
all,  and  anything  less  would  be  worse  than  nothing. 
No,  sir,  they  shan't  know  anything  at  all  until  they  see 
Henry  Clay  Warner  walk  into  the  convention  hall, 
and  then  I'll  explain  if  I  feel  like  it." 

And  he  swaggered  with  a  brief  return  of  his  old 
importance.  As  they  had  plenty  of  time  ahead,  Guth- 
rie proposed  that  they  go  to  the  hotel  and  get  a  bath, 
shave,  and  dinner,  and  return  to  the  city  at  least  look- 
ing like  gentlemen  and  Christians.  They  did  all 
three  to  the  great  improvement  alike  of  appearance 
and  physical  feeling,  Warner  growing  positively  ami- 
able over  his  dinner,  and  when  the  coffee  was  finished 
he  suggested  that  they  sit  on  the  hotel  porch  a  while 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening  after  the  country  custom. 

Here  they  tilted  back  chairs,  lighted  cigars,  and  a 
deep,  soothing  content  stole  over  both.  Warner  in 
particular  felt  that  to  enjoy  rest,  it  was  necessary  to 
have  worked,  and  to  have  worked  hard. 

"  Billy,"  he  said  in  a  slow,  happy  tone,  "  I  am  almost 
glad  to  be  away  from  the  convention  at  this  time.  But 


THE  SECRETS  OF  A  NIGHT          305 

look  yonderl  Unless  I'm  mightily  mistaken  ours 
isn't  the  only  broken-down  carriage  coining  into  town 
to-day!" 

Down  the  road  by  which  they  had  entered  Willville 
an  hour  ago,  toiled  a  slow  and  melancholy  procession. 
A  driver  walked  on  before  as  Curley  had  done,  but 
with  drooping  head  and  slack  arms.  Behind  him 
came  a  carriage  in  a  woeful  plight,  deep  in  dirt,  sagging 
on  broken  springs,  and  drawn  by  horses  which  drooped 
their  heads  like  the  driver,  seeming  to  have  lost  all 
their  ambition  and  interest  in  life.  In  it  sat  a  drooping 
man,  and  the  man  was  Timothy  O'Hara,  dusty,  lank- 
jawed,  pale,  disconsolate,  and  angry,  closing  in  now 
on  what  had  been  hitherto  a  hopeless  quest. 

The  carriage  approached,  and  O'Hara  raising  the 
head  beneath  the  hat  looked  up.  His  eyes  blazed, 
and  he  leaped  out  of  the  carriage.  Three  steps  took 
him  to  the  porch,  and  another  took  him  inside  it.  In 
that  sudden  moment  of  passion  all  his  true  nature 
came  out,  and,  shaking  his  fist  in  Warner's  face,  be 
shouted: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  running  away  from  me — 
from  me,  your  only  friend,  the  man  that's  made  you  ? 
I  say,  what  do  you  mean  by  it,  Hank  Warner?" 

The  Honourable  Henry  Clay  Warner  had  not  been 
called  "Hank"  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  Guthrie,  in 
considering  the  scene  afterward,  was  quite  sure  that 
the  application  of  the  term  "Hank"  was  more  offen- 
sive than  anything  else  O'Hara  said.  It  was  here  an 
expression  of  contempt,  so  intended  and  so  received. 
Warner  had  all  the  fighting  qualities  of  his  State, 
and  he  would  never  stand  personal  abuse  for  a  moment 
Moreover,  he  had  the  consciousness  of  innocence,  and 


306  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

springing  to  his  feet  he  retorted  in  a  manner  not  less 
warlike  than  O'Hara's  own.  But  O'Hara  continued 
with  angry  charges. 

Guthrie  at  length  felt  that  it  was  time  to  interfere, 
and  he  put  his  hand  upon  Warner's  arm  with  a  quiet : 
"Come  away,  Mr.  Warner,  I  would  not  quarrel  with 
such  a  man.  He  is  beneath  you ! " 

Warner,  taking  his  advice,  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
went  to  the  other  end  of  the  porch  with  Guthrie. 
O'Hara  glared  fiercely  after  them  a  moment  or  two, 
and  then  went  into  the  bar-room. 

The  train  was  at  the  station  in  a  few  minutes,  and  War- 
ner and  Guthrie,  boarding  it,  took  a  seat  at  the  far  end  of 
the  single  passenger  car  attached  to  the  freight.  Guth- 
rie looked  back,  and  saw  O'Hara,  still  beneath  the 
crumpled  hat,  coming  aboard.  But  the  Irishman 
sat  in  the  extreme  seat  at  the  other  end  of  the  car  and 
gazed  sternly  out  of  the  window  at  the  trees  and  fences 
and  houses  flitting  by.  Warner  and  Guthrie  did 
likewise,  and  all  the  time  Guthrie  was  trying  to  guess 
what  Warner  would  do,  but  the  member  made  no  sign. 

Thus  pursuer  and  pursued  returned  to  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  DEADLOCK 

THE  morning  of  that  day  had  been  an  uncommon 
one  in  the  city,  its  like  unknown  since  the  days  of  the 
great  Civil  War  when  half  the  people  thought  one  way, 
and  half,  the  other.  It  began  for  most  at  the  breakfast 
table  when  the  morning  papers  were  served  with  the 
toast  and  coffee,  and  they  read  in  those  printed  col- 
umns the  amazing  fact  that  Henry  Clay  Warner,  one 
of  the  three  candidates  for  the  nomination,  and  Tim- 
othy O'Hara,  his  lieutenant  and  chief  worker,  had  dis- 
appeared, leaving  not  a  trace  behind.  It  was  added 
that  William  Guthrie,  the  well-known  political  writer 
of  the  Times  was  gone,  too,  and  he  was  believed  to  be 
with  Mr.  Warner. 

This  was  news,  news  of  the  deepest  and  most  vital 
importance,  still  further  complicating  the  fight  in  the 
Old  Fourth,  and  lending  to  it  the  sombre  colours  of 
mystery  and  tragedy  The  telegraph  wires  had  been 
very  busy  early  in  the  night,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the 
burden  they  were  called  upon  to  carry  toward  morning. 

Clarice  Ransome  read  the  account  at  the  breakfast 
table  in  the  same  casual  unexpected  fashion  that  other 
people  learned  it.  But  the  Times  expressed  no  alarm 
about  Guthrie,  because  it  felt  none,  and  as  she  pon- 
dered over  it  her  own  apprehension  departed.  Placed 
now  in  an  atmosphere  of  keen  political  rivalry,  and 

307 


308  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

possessed  of  great  natural  powers,  she  inferred  that 
there  was  more  behind  the  curtain  than  she  could  see. 
Yet  she  would  have  given  much  to  discover  what  it  all 
meant,  and  like  others  she  was  filled  with  a  deep  and 
abiding  curiosity  to  know  where  Warner  was  and  why 
he  had  gone. 

Lucy  Hastings  and  Mary  Pelham  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  and  her  glance  met  theirs. 

"Mr.  Guthrie  will  be  back  in  good  time,"  said 
Lucy  Hastings,  "I  never  knew  him  to  fail." 

Mr.  Ransome  appeared  at  this  moment,  being  some- 
what late,  and  she  pushed  the  papers  toward  him. 
He  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  when  he  saw 
the  headlines  and  the  pictures,  and  then  he  read  long 
with  interest.  After  he  finished  the  newspapers  he 
drank  his  coffee  with  deliberation,  and  putting  the  cup 
back  in  the  saucer  said' 

"I  suppose  that  young  Guthrie  is  very  much  mixed 
up  in  all  this?" 

She  answered  quietly: 

"Mr.  Guthrie  is  never  'mixed  up'  in  anything." 

Mr.  Ransome  picked  up  a  newspaper,  as  if  he  would 
read  again,  and  hid  a  faint  smile  that  curved  the  cor- 
ners of  his  mouth. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  did  use  rather  a  rough  phrase," 
he  rejoined,  "but  I  didn't  mean  to  attack  the  young 
man's  character  at  all.  I  believe  that  nothing  is  to 
be  said  against  him  on  that  score.  Everybody  speaks 
highly  of  him." 

"They  couldn't  do  anything  else,"  she  rejoined 
spiritedly. 

Mr.  Ransome  smiled  again  behind  his  newspaper. 
He  was  not  a  hard  man,  and  he  loved  his  daughter. 


THE  DEADLOCK  309 

Many  extra  chairs  were  placed  back  of  the  regular 
seats  in  Music  Hall,  and  all  were  filled  long  before  the 
convention  was  called  to  order  again.  Clarice  and 
friends  were  In  a  box  once  more.  Mr.  Stetson 
went  upon  the  stage  amid  a  dead  silence,  and  knocked 
loudly  for  order.  Then  Mr.  James  Bluitt,  the  member 
of  toe  council  from  the  twelfth  ward,  and  an  ally  of 

Hara  s  arose  and  made  a  fiery  speech  about  the  dis- 
appearance of  Warner  and  O'Hara.  It  must  be  ex- 
plained, he  said. 

The  day  lagged  on  with  idle  votes,  and  still  nothing 
was  heard  from  the  three  missing  men.  The  conven- 
tion, not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  adjourned  at 
5  P.  M.  to  reassemble  three  hours  later,  and  the  peo- 
ple went  home  to  dinner  or  supper,  according  to  their 
social  stations. 

Among  those  who  wondered  about  the  missing  men, 
as  they  left  the  hall,  were  three  besides  Clarice,  who 
were  thinking  far  more  of  Guthrie  than  of  the  other 
two.  They  were  Carton,  Mary  Pelham,  and  Senator 
Pike. 

Carton,  aside  from  the  gratitude  that  he  owed  him, 
and  which  he  most  willingly  acknowledged,  had  a 
strong  personal  attachment  for  Guthrie,  hidden  some- 
times by  his  naturally  cold  manner,  and  now  he  felt 
a  slight  apprehension  lest  harm  had  befallen  him. 
But  even  with  Guthrie  there  for  the  present,  Mary 
Pelham  was  always  in  his  thoughts.  He  had  come  to 
the  city  ostensibly  as  a  looker-on  in  the  great  political 
combat,  but  in  reality  it  was  Mary  Pelham  that  drew 
him.  General  and  Mrs.  Pelham,  after  his  triumphant 
acquittal,  had  not  discouraged  him,  and  had  made 
some  awkward  attempts  to  be  polite  to  him,  but  his 


310  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

feeling  against  Mary  remained  for  a  while,  and  then 
gave  way  to  constraint.  Each  day  as  he  sat  near  her 
in  the  box,  he  thought  she  looked  beautiful,  but  very 
distant,  and  the  heart  of  the  man  was  lonely. 

The  Ransome  party  usually  went  home  in  two  car- 
riages, Clarice  or  Mr.  Ransome  assigning  them,  but 
now  neither  did  it,  thinking  perhaps  that  all  was  taken 
for  granted,  and  Senator  Pike,  Carton,  and  Miss  Pelham 
found  themselves  left  for  the  second  carriage.  The 
three  stood  a  moment  just  outside  the  building,  waiting 
for  the  crowd  to  pass. 

"I  do  not  think  any  harm  could  have  happened  to 
Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mary  Pelham. 

"No,"  said  the  Senator,  "that  boy  has  a  wonderful 
way  of  taking  care  of  himself,  but  it  does  not  equal 
the  way  in  which  he  looks  out  for  his  friends." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Carton,  "and  you  and  I,  Sena- 
tor, know  best  of  all." 

Even  in  the  dusk  Carton  saw  a  benevolent  but  some- 
what thoughtful  look  overspread  the  lean,  angular  face 
of  the  mountain  man. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Senator,  as  if  in  retrospect,  "he  was 
the  best  friend  I  have  ever  had,  and  as  for  you,  Mr. 
Carton,  he  saved  you,  and  then  he  brought  you  and 
your  sweetheart  there  together  again,  which  I  know 
was  one  of  his  dearest  wishes." 

Carton  started  and  glanced  quickly  at  Mary.  A 
deep  blush  covered  her  face. 

"But  I  will  leave  you  now,"  said  the  Senator,  "I 
know  that,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  two  are  company  and 
three  are  none." 

He  raised  his  hat  with  the  formal  courtesy  usual 
with  him,  and  was  gone,  leaving  the  two  together  at 


THE  DEADLOCK  311 

the  curb,  with  the  cabman  holding  the  carriage  door 
open  for  them.  Carton  never  knew  whether  the  Sen- 
ator spoke  from  benevolent  ignorance  or  consummate 
craft,  but  mechanically  he  helped  Mary  into  the  car- 
nage, stepped  in  after  her,  and  then  closed  the  door. 
The  driver  cracked  his  whip  and  the  carriage  rumbled 
away  over  the  granite  toward  the  Ransome  home. 

^  Carton  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  he  could  hear 
his  own  breathing  and  that  of  the  girl  beside  him 
Then  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"The  Senator  made  an  error,  Mary;  shall  we  per- 
mit it  to  remain  one?" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  breathing  became 
more  hurried. 

"Mary,"  said  Carton,  and  his  voice  was  strong  with 
feeling,  "people  thought  me  a  criminal  once!" 
"I  never  thought  so!" 

"No,  I  know  now  that  you  did  not.  I  was  not  a 
criminal,  but  I  am  a  fool,  and  I  have  long  been  one. 
But  Senator  Pike  has  shown  me  the  way,  and  I  should 
be  a  coward  if  I  did  not  try  to  tread  it.  At  least,  I  shall 
risk  my  fortune.  Mary,  forgive  all  the  past  and  listen 
to  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you.  Won't  you?" 
"You  have  more  to  forgive  than  I." 
"It  is  not  so.  But  love  can  overlook  all.  At  least, 
I  feel  that  such  as  mine  ought  to  win  me  forgiveness. 
I  love  you  with  all  my  soul;  say  that  you  can  return 
it  just  a  little!" 

"Not  just  a  little,  but  a  good  deal!" 
Suddenly  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 
She  blushed  deeply,  but  she  had  no  words  of  reproof 
for  him. 
When  Mary  Pelham  returned  to  the  Ransome  house, 


312  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Clarice  met  her,  and  one  glance  at  the  vivid  eyes  and 
happy  face  was  enough. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  said  Clarice,  "he  has  spoken  at  last!" 

Then  the  two  girls  kissed  each  other. 

They  were  all  very  quiet  at  dinner,  and  immediately 
afterward  they  made  ready  to  attend  the  convention 
again,  except  Mrs.  Ransome,  who  majestically  de- 
clined to  be  a  spectator  at  such  an  affair. 

Night  came  down  on  the  city — a  hot,  troubled,  ap- 
prehensive night,  sown  with  rumors,  reports,  and 
threats  like  dragons'  teeth.  The  eleventh  and  twelfth 
wards  again  marched  away  from  the  hall  in  solid 
phalanx,  dark  and  ominous,  but  everybody  came  back 
once  more  at  eight  o'clock,  keyed  to  the  highest  point  of 
interest. 

Mr.  Stetson  took  the  chair  amid  a  white,  expectant 
silence.  It  was  remarked  then  by  many  that  the  long 
strain  had  begun  to  tell  even  on  his  iron  powers. 
A  ballot  was  now  ordered  and  showed  no  change. 

The  hot  night  dragged  on  and  Mr.  Bluitt  arose 
again  to  relieve  himself  of  the  angry  thoughts  that 
surged  in  his  brain.  His  hints  of  foul  play  grew 
broader.  Jimmy  Warfield,  ever  an  effervescent  soul, 
took  fire  at  the  charge,  and  springing  up  in  his  chair 
he  shouted  that  the  convention  was  tired  alike  of  hint 
and  menace;  if  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards  had 
any  accusation  to  make,  let  them  make  it  now  in  the 
face  of  all  men.  The  decent  people  of  the  city  were 
tired  of  being  blackguarded  and  obstructed  by  rebels 
and  traitors. 

The  convention  was  in  an  uproar  in  an  instant. 
The  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards  sprang  up  in  a  body, 
hurling  epithets  from  powerful  lungs  at  Warfield  and 


THE  DEADLOCK  313 

all  his  kind.  There  was,  too,  that  strange  indescriba- 
ble sound  as  the  whole  convention  by  a  single  impulse 
rose  to  its  feet.  Some  women  cried  out.  Men  shouted 
•Order!''  "Order!"  "Sit  down!"  "Sit  down'" 
Fhe  chairman,  a  look  of  alarm  on  his  face,  beat  on 
the  table  until  the  head  of  his  gavel  flew  off,  and  the 
whole  hall  resounded  with  tumult. 

"Look!  look!"  cried   Clarice  in  an  excited   tone, 
seizrng  her  father's  arm.    "Look!  there  they  come!" 
The  whole  convention  heard  that  sharp,  strained 
cry,  and  instantly  faced  about. 

The  three  missing  men  were  entering  the  hall  at  the 
same  time,  Warner  and  Guthrie  through  one  door,  and 
O'Hara  through  another. 

All  the  convention  saw  in  a  glance,  and  the  keen- 
eyed  chairman  noticed  with  indescribable  relief  that 
Warner  and  Guthrie  were  together,  and  O'Hara  alone. 
The  tumult  in  the  hall  was  not  decreased,  but  it  had 
now  another  note.  It  was  a  roar  of  mingled  relief, 
curiosity  and  excitement.  The  band  perched  far  up 
in  the  balcony,  suddenly  struck  up  "Johnny  comes 
marching  home,"  and  Clarice,  and  Lucy,  and  Mary, 
in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  waved  their  hand- 
kerchiefs repeatedly.  Clarice  was  waving  hers  for 
Guthrie,  although  she  was  unconscious  of  it  then. 

The  tumult  suddenly  died  and  was  followed  by  the 
deep  silence  of  strained  waiting.  What  was  Warner 
going  to  do  ?  He  and  Guthrie  presented  a  sharp  con- 
trast to  O'Hara;  they  were  clean-shaven,  well-brushed, 
and  trim,  having  rested  and  repaired  themselves  at  the 
hotel  at  Willville,  while  O'Hara  was  still  unkempt  and 
unshaven.  The  silk  hat  with  the  cruel  rent  in  it  he 
carried  in  his  hand,  his  beard  was  fuzzy,  and  his  clothes 


314  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

were  all  awry.     He  looked  no  longer  natty,  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards,  but  disreputable. 

Warner  and  Guthrie  separated  in  the  centre  of  the 
hall,  Guthrie  going  down  a  side-aisle,  and  thence 
through  a  side-door  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  where  he 
slipped  quietly  into  a  chair,  hidden  from  notice.  War- 
ner, on  the  contrary,  the  focus  of  all  eyes,  and  conscious 
of  it,  continued  toward  a  seat  in  the  centre  of  the 
twelfth  ward. 

The  convention  was  surprised  to  see  the  member 
looking  so  jaunty.  Both  complexion  and  eyes  were 
clearer,  and  he  held  himself  with  more  dignity  than 
usual.  But  he  gave  no  signs  of  his  intentions,  quickly 
taking  his  seat,  and  shaking  the  numerous  hands  that 
were  held  out  to  him. 

O'Hara  sat  down  with  the  eleventh  ward,  and  there 
he  made  a  sudden  change  of  face.  He  seemed  to 
awake  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  his  angry  accusations 
were  injurious  to  his  campaign,  and  he  smoothed  out 
both  his  clothes  and  his  countenance.  He  whispered 
some  words  to  one  of  his  men,  and  the  latter,  going 
over  to  Warner  began  to  whisper  also.  Evidently  he 
was  opening  negotiations  for  a  treaty  of  peace,  and  the 
leaders  who  saw  it  from  their  seats  of  vantage  were 
alarmed.  The  whole  convention  noticed  the  act  also, 
and  there  was  a  loud  buzz  of  comment. 

Guthrie  saw  it,  but  just  then  he  paid  little  attention, 
as  a  code  of  mental  telepathy  was  in  perfect  operation 
between  him  and  Clarice.  He  informed  her  by  means 
of  these  silent  signals  that  he  was  well  in  both  body 
and  mind,  that  no  misfortune  whatever  had  happened 
to  him;  that  he  believed  everything  was  coming  out 
all  right,  and  that  she  was  more  beautiful  than  ever. 


THE  DEADLOCK  315 

She  telegraphed  back  that  she  was  overjoyed  to  see 
him,  that  she  cared  nothing  for  the  disappearance  or 
return  of  either  Warner  or  O'Hara,  that  she  had  per- 
feet  confidence  in  him,  and  that  he  was  the  greatest 
man  m  all  the  world  to  her. 

Few  more  satisfactory  messages  than  these  have 
been  sent  and  answered,  and  they  established  a  per- 
fect circuit,  connecting  these  two,  and  wholly  ignoring 
the  rest  of  the  convention. 

It  was  well  that  the  telegraphy  was  quickly  done, 
Outhne  was  soon  dragged  from  his  seat  by  eager 
hands  and  carried  off  to  one  of  the  little  rooms  where 
he  told  the  story  of  the  night  to  eager  listeners. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  stage  and  saw  Warner 
still  among  his  friends,  whispering  to  them.  Mr. 
Stetson  had  ordered  another  ballot  in  order  to  mark 
time,  and  the  clerk  was  calling  the  monotonous  roll 
of  the  wards.  Guthrie  took  advantage  of  the  lull  and 
went  into  the  box  where  Clarice  sat  with  her  father 
and  friends.  He  faced  Mr.  Ransome  without  trepi- 
dation, and  offered  him  his  hand,  which  the  merchant 
shook  with  heartiness. 

[  am  glad  to  see  you  returned  in  safety,  Mr. 
Guthrie,"  he  said,  "both  for  your  own  sake  and  be- 
cause you  are  one  of  the  central  figures  in  a  very  inter- 
esting event." 

Clarice's  welcome  was  still  conducted  through  the 
medium  of  mental  telepathy,  but  at  a  much  shorter 
range,  and,  therefore,  with  greater  effect 

Carton  and  Mary  Pelham  were  sitting  side  by  side 
at  a  corner  of  the  box,  a  glow  of  happiness  in  the  eyes 
of  each,  and  when  Guthrie  saw,  he  knew  that  somehow 
or  other  all  was  now  right  between  them.  The  "ex- 


316  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

plosion,"  predicted  by  Jimmy  Warfield,  had  come. 
"I  o  awful  glad,"  he  said  under  his  breath  when  he 
shook  hands  with  Carton,  and  Carton  replied  in  the 
same  whisper:  "Without  you  it  could  never  have 

k^lr"  Ransome  and  Carton  began  to  talk  with  each 
other,  and  as  the  fog  horn  voice  of  the  clerk,  dining 
out  the  vote,  kept  the  convention  occupied  Clarice 
and  Guthrie  hJ  a  chance  to  change  the  telepathic 
communication  for  real  words  with  sound  to  them^ 
The  others  were  in  the  front  of  the  box  looking  toward 
the  audience,  and  Clarice  and  Guthrie  were  back  m 
the  shadow. 

She  put  her  hand  in  his,  a  moment. 

"Mr    Guthrie,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  know  where 
you  have  been  or  why  you  went,  but  I  know  it  was 

t0?uX™™"  ^  said,  "I  have  been  on  a  long 
journey  which  I  did  not  mean  to  take,  and  I  am  co 
fident  that  if  I  have  done  anything  at  all,  it  has  been 

good." 

Then  her  eyes  met  his  in  supreme  trust 
"I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it  to  the  last  detail,  whei 
the  convention  is  over,"  he  added. 

"What  is  going  on  there  now?"  she  asked. 
Mr.  Warner  has  left  the  hall." 

"No  "  replied  Guthrie,  "he  has  gone  into  one  of  the 
side  rooms,  and  so  has  O'Hara;  it  is  nothing 

Yet  he  was  troubled.     But  he  did  not  see  what  he 
could  do  just  then,  and  it  was  very  pleasant  there 
Clarice.     He  was  still  under  a  great  strain,  tmrty-s 
hours  without  sleep,  and  his  whole  nervous  system 
keyed  to  the  highest  pitch.    So  he  remained  talking 


THE  DEADLOCK  317 

with  Clarice,  and  what  was  passing  in  the  hall  outside 
their  box  was  a  great  blur  and  buzz.  But  she  gave 
back  encouragement  to  him.  Both  word  and  look 
were  alive  with  it,  and  for  the  while  he  was  content. 

Thus  time  passed  easily,  how  long  he  did  not  know 
until  Jimmy  Warfield  burst  into  the  box,  his  hair  flying, 
and  his  face  aghast. 

"Come,  Billy!  Come  at  once!"  he  cried,  forgetting 
his  courtesy  to  a  lady,  which  indicated  extreme  excite- 
ment on  the  part  of  Jimmy  Warfield. 

"What's  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Guthrie  taking 
alarm. 

"Everything's  the  matter!"  replied  Warfield. 
"O'Hara  and  those  fellows  have  got  hold  of  Warner 
again,  and  you  know  his  weakness— well  they've 
played  on  it— and  now  he's  irresponsible,  and  they 
are  making  him  say  he'll  never  withdraw.  He  won't 
speak  to  any  of  us  but  you.  Come  at  once  or  every- 
thing will  go  to  ruin!" 

"Go,"  added  Clarice  in  a  tone  low,  but  none  the 
less  emphatic.  He  glanced  once  at  her  and  her  eyes 
met  his.  That  command,  he  saw,  was  as  much  for 
their  sakes  as  the  party's,  and  he  hastened  at  once 
from  the  box. 

"In  there!"  said  Warfield,  indicating  one  of  the 
small  rooms,  and  Guthrie,  promptly  pushing  open  the 
door,  entered  alone. 

It  was  indeed  a  pitiful  spectacle  that  saluted  him  in 
the  little  room.  Warner,  whatever  his  moral  growth, 
and  whatever  his  intentions  may  have  been  during 
that  return  journey,  had  fallen  again  into  the  han.is 
of  the  toiler.  O'Hara,  Bluitt,  and  Pursley  had  re- 
turned to  the  charge,  and  they  knew  the  breach  in  the 


318  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

fortifications.  Warner  had  yielded  to  temptation,  and 
now  he  was  lying  upon  a  sofa,  his  face  inflamed,  and 
his  eye  wild,  while  he  babbled  of  a  long  ride  through 
dark  woods  and  the  fact  that  he,  Henry  Clay  Warner, 
was  the  friend  of  the  people  and  would  defend  them 
forever.  He  was  in  the  race  to  stay.  O'Hara,  Bluitt, 
and  Pursley  stood  by  in  silence,  while  a  gigantic  black- 
smith, one  Connell,  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  face 
expressionless. 

Frowning  looks  met  Guthrie  as  he  entered,  but 
disregarding  them  he  went  straight  to  Warner. 

"Hello,  Billy!  They  didn't  lose  us  did  they?" 
exclaimed  the  member,  holding  out  his  hand  and 
laughing  foolishly. 

"No,  but  I  wish  they  had!"  replied  Guthrie  from 
the  bottom  of  his  heart.  "Mr.  Warner,  come  with 
me.  These  are  no  friends  of  yours." 

"See  here,  young  man,"  cried  O'Hara  threaten- 
ingly, "that  sort  of  talk  don't  go  with  us  any  longer. 
Now  you  clear  out,  and  be  quick  about  it!" 

The  crowd  gave  forth  a  menacing  growl,  but  sudden 
intervention  came,  and  it  was  the  blacksmith,  Connell, 
who  furnished  it. 

"Let  the  boy  have  his  talk  with  Mr.  Warner,"  he 
said.  "This  is  a  free  country,  and  if  he  wants  to  say 
anything,  he's  got  the  right  to  say  it." 

Two  or  three  others  indorsed  Council's  emphatic 
words,  and  O'Hara  and  Bluitt  hesitated.  They  were 
confronted  by  a  rebellion  in  their  own  ranks,  and  they 
neither  liked  it  nor  knew  exactly  how  to  meet  it.  See- 
ing his  opportunity,  Guthrie  assailed  Warner  fiercely 
with  unanswerable  arguments.  He  knew  that  he  had 
a  power  over  the  man — a  power  increased  by  their 


THE  DEADLOCK  319 

comradeship  in  the  woods,  and  while  O'Hara,  Bluitt 
and  Pursley  wrangled  with  Connell  and  his  friends' 
he  pursued  the  member  with  all  the  energy  needed 
for  a  last  and  desperate  chance. 

Meanwhile  the  convention  was  again  in  a  turmoil 

The  departure  of  Warner  and  O'Hara  from  the  floor  had 

been  viewed  with  interest  by  all  and  suspicion  by  many. 

A  rumour-one  of  those  rumours  that  start  no  one 

knows  how,  and  gain  colour  and  strength  as  they  go, 

spread  through  the  hall,  and  was  believed  by  nearly 

everybody.     It   said   that   Warner  had   promised   to 

withdraw,  that  he  had  told   Billy  Guthrie  so,  that 

3'Hara,  Bluitt,  and  Pursley  were  now  trying  to  make 

him  take  back  the  promise. 

This  rumour,  winged  and  ominous,  reached  the 
eleventh  and  twelfth  ward  delegates,  who  yet  remained 
in  their  seats,  and  they  shifted  their  feet  uneasily. 
They  did  not  know  whether  to  believe  or  disbelieve, 
but  they  were  bound  to  admit  that  they  were  shaken. 
They  had  stood  in  close  phalanx  a  long  time,  but  the 
long  doubt,  the  heat  and  the  heavy  pressure  from 
without  disconcerted  them.  They  looked  up  at  the 
white  glare  of  the  electric  lights,  and  they  listened  to 
the  buzzing  of  the  tiny  flies,  but  they  found  no  answer 
in  either.  A  bell  in  a  church  spire,  not  far  away,  tolled 
midnight. 

The  rumour  continued  to  grow  and  took  on  new 
colours.  It  was  said  that  Warner  had  collapsed  sud- 
denly, overpowered  by  hardships  during  that  long  and 
mysterious  absence,  but  Billy  Guthrie  knew  what  he 
wanted  to  say.  A  sudden  cry  of  "Guthrie I"  arose, 
and  it  was  taken  up  and  repeated  till  it  became  insis- 
tent. "Guthrie!"  "Guthrie!"  "Guthrie!"  rang 


320  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

through  the  hall,  a  chorus  rising  and  falling  like  a 
wave,  but  never  stopping. 

Clarice  was  alarmed  at  first  when  she  heard  the  cry. 
She  did  not  know  why  they  should  call  for  Guthrie, 
and  she  felt  that  they  had  some  accusation  against  him. 

Louder  and  more  insistent  grew  the  cry  for  Guthrie, 
but  neither  he  nor  O'Hara,  nor  Bluitt,  nor  Pursley 
reappeared,  although  minute  after  minute  passed  until 
they  made  an  hour.  But  nobody  left  the  convention, 
and  still  they  shouted  for  Guthrie. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  BREATH  OF  FAME 

THE  convention  had  reached  an  impassable  barrier. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  it,  and  the  fact  was  apparent 
even  to  the  youngest  of  the  audience.     It  needed  no 
words  to  tell  it;  the  "feel"  of  it  was  in  the  air.    The 
hall  was  closer  and  hotter  than  ever,  and  the  electric 
lights  glared  with  a  searching  cruel,  white  light     Down 
in  the  body  of  the  hall  the  delegates  showed  all  the 
marks  of  a  long,  fierce,  and  bitter  battle.    Their  eyes 
were  red  and  so  were  their  eyelids.    Their  faces  were 
drawn,  and  disclosed  new  wrinkles,  their  hair  was  di- 
shevelled, and  every  collar  was  limp.    The  angry,  down- 
ward turn  of  the  lips  showed,  too,  that  they  would  not 
stand  much  more.     The  cry  for  Guthrie'was,  there- 
fore, a  sort  of  relief— perhaps  the  last  left  to  them,  and 
it  was  taken  up  and  repeated  by  all,  swelling  continually. 
But  Headly  and  Graves  had  quite  reached  the  end 
of  their  patience.    They  were  in  open  and  unquelled 
rebellion,  and  in  a  side  room  opposite  the  one  in  which 
Guthrie  and  Warner  and  O'Hara  were  talking  they 
were  telling  the  leaders  that  the  time  for  them  to  act 
had  come,  and  no  further  excuse  for  delay  would  suffice. 
It  was  now  past  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  ballot 
must  be  ordered,  and  after  that  Warner  must  be  declared 
out  of  the  race.     Nothing  that  the  leaders  said  could 
soothe  two   angry   men   or  extend   their  patience. 

321 


322  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

Meanwhile  the  convention  still  stamped  the  floor 
and  roared  for  Guthrie,  without  knowing  just  why  it 
called  him. 

But  Guthrie,  engrossed  in  a  hard  task  behind  closed 
doors,  did  not  hear  the  cry.  Again  it  was  a  struggle 
between  him  and  O'Hara  for  Warner,  with  Bluitt  and 
Pursley  actively  seconding  O'Hara,  and  the  black- 
smith, Connell,  inclining  to  Guthrie's  side.  Even  in 
those  moments  of  excitement  and  haste  this  psychologi- 
cal aspect  appealed  to  Guthrie;  it  was  a  combat  between 
the  good  and  evil  in  Warner,  and,  for  the  present,  the 
fight  seemed  to  be  waged  on  even  terms.  Again  and 
again  the  man  wavered;  now  he  was  ready  to  go  and 
announce  to  the  convention  that  he  would  withdraw, 
and  then  he  was  equally  ready  with  his  old  assertion: 
"I  am  in  the  fight  to  stay." 

The  struggle  across  the  hall  with  Headly  and  Graves 
was  equal  to  this  in  fire  and  intensity,  but  it  lacked  its 
dramatic  phases,  and  there  was  less  at  stake.  Warner 
now  and  then  got  upon  his  feet  and  walked,  or  rather 
staggered,  across  the  room,  and  then  back  and  forth, 
until  he  was  tired,  after  which  he  would  fall  upon  the 
sofa  again.  He  wanted,  too,  at  times  to  declaim  upon 
his  wrongs,  and  the  unfairness  of  the  leaders  toward 
him,  but  he  never  varied  in  his  esteem  and  liking  for 
Guthrie,  whom  he  frequently  called  his  "good  friend," 
before  O'Hara  and  Bluitt  themselves. 

Pursley  presently  slipped  out  and  returned  in  a  few 
moments  with  a  brimming  cocktail.  "  Here,  Mr.  War- 
ner," he  said,  "drink  this;  it  will  refresh  you  and 
clear  you  mind."  Warner  swallowed  it  instantly,  and 
then  under  the  influence  of  the  potent  fire  grew  more 
belligerent. 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  323 

"Billy,"  he  exclaimed,  waving  his  hands  in  an  ora- 
torical manner,  "I  am  in  the  fight  to  stay.  Go  back 
and  tell  them  that  I  shall  never  withdraw  I" 

Then  he  fell  exhausted  by  his  effort,  and  Guthrie 
suddenly  losing  hope,  turned  away  in  despair.  Was 
all  his  work  to  come  to  this  miserable  end  ?  Nor  will 
he  ever  forget  the  sneering  look  of  triumph  on  the 
faces  of  Warner  and  Bluitt.  With  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob  he  could  not  withhold  a  farewell  shot. 

"Mr.  Warner,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  will  live  to  be 
a  better  man  than  you  are  at  this  moment." 

Then  stepping  out  he  closed  the  door  and  entered 
the  narrow  aisle  leading  to  the  stage.  He  paused 
there  a  moment,  his  face  suddenly  growing  pale  and 
the  blood  leaping  up  from  his  heart.  It  was  the  sound 
of  his  own  name  repeated  by  thousands  of  voices  that 
startled  him  and  held  him  to  the  spot.'  It  is  a  thing 
that  has  a  marvellous  effect  upon  a  man  when  he  hears 
it  for  the  first  time,  touching  new  pulses  and  arousing 
new  emotions,  and  Guthrie  for  a  moment  trembled. 
Nor  could  he  understand  this  cry,  why  it  had  begun, 
or  why  it  continued. 

He  stood  there,  still  hesitating,  a  solitary  figure  in 
the  dusky  little  aisle,  while  the  great  audience  without 
still  roared  his  name. 

As  he  stood  listening  two  figures  hastened  to  him. 
They  were  Jimmy  Warfield  and  Connell,  and  Guthrie 
forgot  to  be  surprised  at  seeing  them  together. 

"Billy,"  exclaimed  Warfield,  "he'll  withdraw!  He'll 
withdraw !  He  takes  it  all  back !  Ask  Connell  here  if  it 
isn't  so!" 

Billy  looked  at  Connell  and  the  big  blacksmith 
nodded  his  head.  There  was  started  afterward,  no 


324  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

one  knows  how,  a  rumour  that  Warner  later  on  asked 
Connell  just  when  he  gave  him  that  message,  but  it  has 
never  been  verified.  Guthrie,  however,  was  not 
thinking  then  of  such  questions  as  the  manner  and 
origin  of  the  message,  but  of  its  import.  He  felt  as  if 
a  mighty  and  crushing  weight  had  been  lifted,  and  for 
a  moment  he  felt  himself  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  The 
triumph  had  come  so  unexpectedly  that  he  could  hardly 
believe  it,  and  he  remained  speechless  a  few  seconds, 
while  the  sound  of  his  own  name  still  thundered  in  his 
ears. 

"Does  he  mean  it?  Does  he  really  mean  it?"  he 
asked  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Warfield,  and  the  blacksmith  nodded. 

"  Then,  for  God's  sake  bring  him  on  at  once  and  let 
him  make  his  speech  of  withdrawal.  The  convention 
can't  hold  together  much  longer!" 

He  was  looking  down  the  narrow  aisle  toward  the 
stage.  He  saw  that  Mr.  Stetson  had  temporarily 
abdicated  the  chair  in  favour  of  another  man,  and  was 
coming  toward  him,  while  over  and  beyond  the 
head  of  the  editor  he  saw  a  cross-section  of  the  great 
audience — hot,  impatient,  angry,  and  making  much 
noise. 

"We  must  get  Warner  on  at  once,"  he  repeated 
half  mechanically. 

"He  can't  come,"  replied  Warfield  significantly. 
"He's  sick,  don't  you  know?  He  can't  stand  up  and 
he  says  he  won't  face  an  audience  now!" 

The  big  blacksmith  nodded  again. 

"Then  what's  to  be  done?"  cried  Guthrie. 

"Why,  you  must  speak  for  him,"  replied  Warfield. 
"He  says  you  are  to  do  it,  that  you  have  a  speech  for  him 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  325 

and   somebody   has   told   the   audience,   too.    Don't 
you  hear  'em  shouting  your  name!" 

The  chairman  reached  Guthrie  at  that  moment,  and 
at  once  grasped  the  full  import  of  the  talk. 

"Come  Billy!    Come!"  he  cried,  "you  must  go  on 
instantly." 

"But  I  can't  make  a  speech!"  exclaimed  Guthrie. 
"You  can!" 

"But  I  haven't  any  to  make!" 
"That  speech  you   wrote  for  Warner!    The  one 
you  recited  for  me  in  my  office!    Hurry!    The  people 
will  tear  the  house  down,  if  you  don't  come!" 

Guthrie  still  hesitated,  overcome  by  a  sudden  and 
great  terror. 

"The  fate  of  the  Old  Fourth  now  depends  on  you 
alone,"  shouted  the  Chairman  in  his  ear. 

It  was  a  cry  for  help,  that  touched  the  inmost  fibres 
of  Guthrie's  being,  one  to  which  he  never  failed  to  re- 
spond, and  he  took  a  step  forward.  Others  came 
.crowding  behind  him,  Mr.  Stetson,  Warfield, 
Grayson,  Hays,  and  so  many  more  that  in  a 
moment  he  found  himself  on  the  stage,  face  to  the 
audience. 

Then  that  great  cry  of  "Guthrie!"  "Guthrie!" 
rolling,  insistent,  ever-growing  ceased  so  suddenly 
that  the  silence  following  it,  was  deathly  and  painful. 
Guthrie  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  he  felt  every  nerve 
in  him  trembling,  but  he  walked  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  swaying  slightly. 

Not  a  thought  would  come,  his  tongue  lay  dry  in  his 
mouth,  and  before  his  eyes  there  was  a  blur  and  a  haze, 
in  which  thousands  of  upturned,  expectant  faces 
melted  into  a  great,  threatening  human  cloud.  Then 


326  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

his  gaze  wandered  to  one  side  and  there  he  saw  her  in 
the  box,  not  in  a  cloud  nor  in  a  haze,  a  flushed  and 
beautiful  face,  and  two  luminous  eyes  that  met  his  and 
said:  "I  know  you  cannot  fail!" 

Then  he  turned  again  to  that  mighty  curve  of  human 
faces,  rising  before  him,  row  on  row,  every  pair  of  eyes 
bent  upon  him.  The  silence  in  the  hall  was  yet  deathly 
and  painful.  A  sheet  of  paper  was  heard  fluttering  to 
the  floor. 

Then  a  spark  leaped  up  suddenly  in  Guthrie's 
breast  and  burst  into  a  flame.  The  blood  came  flush- 
ing to  his  face,  and  with  it  a  giant  courage  that  held 
him  in  its  grasp.  The  mist  and  the  haze  floated  away, 
and  the  faces  still  rose  before  him,  row  on  row,  but 
beckoning  and  friendly  now.  All  the  thoughts,  all  the 
ideas  that  had  been  growing  in  his  brain  all  these  years 
crowded  for  utterance,  and  the  words  rushed  to  the 
tip  of  his  tongue. 

He  began  to  speak,  at  first  in  a  voice  nervous 
and  trembling  a  little,  but  soon  gaining  volume  and 
decision,  until  its  rich  tones  filled  every  corner  of  the 
great  hall.  He  began  with  the  speech  that  he  had 
written  for  Warner,  the  renunciation,  the  sacrifice  of 
self  for  party,  and  the  general  good,  changing  from 
the  first  to  the  third  person,  but  somehow  Warner 
soon  glided  from  his  scheme  of  things.  He  forgot  all 
about  the  red-faced  man  on  the  sofa  in  the  little  room, 
and  his  veering  to  and  fro  as  the  wind  blew — all  about 
the  squalid  struggle  with  Headly  and  Graves  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hall,  and  remembered  only  his  con- 
ception of  public  life  and  public  duty.  He  was  still 
within  the  lines  of  the  speech  that  he  had  written,  but 
it  no  longer  had  a  personal  and  particular  application. 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  327 

He  was  speaking  from  the  heart,  and  the  words  came 
fast  but  in  orderly  sequence. 

He  looked  down  once  at  the  Chairman,  who 
had  resumed  his  seat,  and  whose  eyes  met  his 
in  a  fixed,  admiring  gaze,  then  his  look  passed 
on  and  met  another  pair  of  eyes  in  a  box,  softer,  more 
luminous,  and  shining  now  with  absolute  faith 
and  joy. 

Guthrie  felt  a  curious  exaltation.  Timid  at  first 
he  has  now  absolute  ease  and  confidence.  He 
was  a  musician  who  knew  his  instrument,  and  there 
before  him  was  that  instrument,  the  audience.  He 
noted  then  how  the  look  upon  that  mighty  curve  of 
faces  changed,  as  he  willed  that  it  should  change,  how 
it  expressed  joy,  or  sadness,  or  anger,  as  he  touched 
the  keys. 

And  as  he  spoke  the  deep,  intense,  rapt  silence  of 
the  audience  continued. 
Something  wonderful  was  happening. 
And  everbody  in  that  great  crowd  knew  it. 
They  knew  that  an  orator  of  the  first  rank,  a  states- 
man and  a  man  of  genius  had  been  disclosed  suddenly 
to  them.    The  form  of  the  man  on  the  stage  seemed 
to  them  to  grow,  his  eyes  were  alight,  his  face  inspired, 
the  deep  rich  tones  of  his  voice  filled  their  ears,  and  his 
words  appealed  alike  to  head  and  heart.    Many  of 
them  began  to  think  of  an  earlier  day,  when  a  man  of 
their  State  was  the  first  in  the  Union,  one  upon  whose 
words  the  nation  hung,  and  now  they  foresaw  that  the 
day  had  come  back  again  and  the  great  man's  successor 
stood  before  them. 

Guthrie  spoke  on,  gathering  power  as  he   went. 
The  thoughts   and   the   aspirations  of  his  boyhood, 


328  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

his  youth,  and  his  young  manhood  were  finding  vent, 
and  he  rejoiced  like  a  strong  man  in  his  strength  and 
skill. 

New  thoughts  came  crowding  upon  each  other,  and 
all  were  fresh,  original,  phrased  in  striking  language, 
and  delivered  in  a  compelling  voice.  It  was  a  speech, 
too,  on  a  new  plane,  something  higher  and  loftier  than 
the  ordinary,  something  that  took  the  listeners  out  of 
themselves,  something  that  made  them  think  now  of 
better  things. 

Guthrie  looked  once  down  toward  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  wards,  and  he  saw  the  dense  cohorts  of  the 
rebels,  their  faces  eager  and  bent  forward  like  the  rest. 
And  he  saw,  too,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  group,  the 
red  and  startled  face  of  Warner,  and  beside  him  the 
broad  features  of  the  blacksmith,  Connell.  He  did 
not  know  how  they  had  come  there,  and  it  was  not  for 
him  to  wonder  then.  But  he  knew  that  he  held  all 
under  his  spell,  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards  with 
the  others. 

He  painted  for  them  new  ideals,  he  inspired  them 
with  a  sense  of  new  duties,  he  showed  a  contempt  of 
sordid  party  squabbles,  he  made  them  look  beyond  the 
narrow  confines  of  the  Old  Fourth  District,  however 
glorious  it  might  be,  toward  the  affairs  of  the  Union 
and  the  world.  His  were  the  views  of  a  true  states- 
man— one  who  did  not  build  merely  for  to-day,  but 
for  time,  one  who  was  not  seeking  personal  advantage, 
but  the  good  of  all. 

And  they  listened  and  believed.  The  hour  and  the 
man,  so  often  quoted,  and  so  often  quoted  falsely,  had 
come  together — this  time  in  truth  and  reality,  and 
every  one  knew  it.  In  the  moment  of  doubt,  anger, 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  329 

and  despair,  he  had  appeared  and  involuntarily  all 
turned  to  him,  as  the  compass  turns  to  the  pole. 

Clarice  in  her  box  listened  with  wet  eyes  and  over- 
flowing heart.  She  had  long  believed  in  him,  and  now 
all  that  she  had  believed,  and  more,  was  coming  true. 
She  looked  up  at  her  uncle,  who  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Guthrie,  and  then  at  her  father,  who  was  leaning  for- 
ward now,  his  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  box,  and  lis- 
tening with  the  air  of  a  man  who  did  not  care  what 
came  afterward.  The  feeling  of  triumph  deepened, 
and  when  she  looked  out  again  at  the  great  audience, 
held  by  the  magician's  spell,  her  heart  was  filled  with 
pride  and  exultation. 

The  clock  in  the  church  steeple  boomed  two  o'clock, 
but  no  one  noticed.  It  was  hotter  than  ever  in  the 
hall,  long  crowded  by  the  multitude,  and  the  thrice- 
breathed  air  grew  thicker  and  thicker,  but  no  one 
noticed  it.  Behind  Guthrie  at  the  press  tables,  one  of 
which  he  had  so  lately  left,  the  reporters  were  writing 
for  dear  life,  and  noiseless  messenger  boys  were  slip- 
ping away  to  the  telegraph  offices  with  page  after  page 
of  the  most  sensational  speech  of  the  decade,  Again 
the  wires  were  clicking  industriously  with  the  news 
from  the  fight  in  the  Old  Fourth,  but  it  was  news  of 
another  kind.  Despatch  after  despatch  was  sent  to 
the  great  newspaper  offices  in  New  York  and  Boston, 
and  Chicago,  and  elsewhere,  all  foreshadowing  the 
end,  all  foreshadowing  it  in  the  same  way.  "What 
a  pity  we  haven't  his  picture  nowl"  more  than  one 
shirt-sleeved  night  editor  said. 

But  Guthrie  unconscious  of  all  the  wires  that  he 
had  set  to  talking,  spoke  on,  eye  and  mind  fixed  on 
that  political  ideal  which  he  had  so  often  imagined 


330  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

for  himself,  and  down  there  among  the  rebel  delegates, 
Warner,  still  red-faced  and  startled,  never  moved  nor 
said  a  word. 

Guthrie  was  still  playing  on  the  great  instrument, 
his  audience,  and  his  hand  was  the  hand  of  a  master. 
He  tore  the  secrets  out  of  their  hearts,  there  was  no 
emotion  they  could  feel  that  he  did  not  arouse;  they 
saw  white  or  they  saw  black,  as  he  pleased,  but  always 
he  led  them  on  to  higher  thoughts  and  higher  ideals 
than  those  of  every  day.  They,  too,  forgot  the  hot 
and  crowded  hall,  the  stifling  air,  the  glaring  electirc 
lights,  and  followed  him  into  loftier  and  purer  regions. 

Clarice  alone  in  all  that  multitude  was  able  to  take 
her  eyes  from  the  orator,  and  it  was  because  she  loved 
him  best.  Great  as  was  his  speech,  the  man  was  more 
to  her,  and  in  that  hour  of  her  supreme  joy  and  triumph 
she  looked  to  see  its  effect  upon  others.  The  Chairman, 
an  uncommon  man  himself,  still  had  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  speaker's  face,  her  uncle  and  her  father,  Mr.  Car- 
ton, and  Mr.  Pike  did  not  move,  nor  did  Warner,  the 
rebel,  the  irreconcilable,  and  O'Hara  himself  was 
crushed  down  in  his  seat,  anger,  fear,  and  admiration 
struggling  on  his  face  which  was  always  turned  toward 
Guthrie. 

Guthrie  spoke  on  and  on.  The  fountain  of  speech 
had  been  unloosed  suddenly  in  him,  and  it  came  spark- 
ling in  all  its  vigour  and  freshness.  The  crowd  hung 
on  every  word.  There  was  the  faint  rustle  of  a  skirt 
now  and  then,  the  soft,  sighing  sound  of  the  painted 
fans  as  they  moved  slowly,  and  the  deep  drawn  ah! 
of  some  one  stirred  to  new  emotion,  but  no  other  sound. 
Golden  speech  had  indeed  come  back  to  earth  for  them, 
and  they  were  held  by  its  spell.  The  night  grew  closer 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  331 

and  hotter,  and  the  heavy  air  hung  heavier  in  the  hall, 
but  they  noticed  it  not;  they  were  seeing  new  scenes, 
thinking  fresh  thoughts,  as  the  orator  led  them  into 
purer  regions,  free  from  the  mean  and  sordid  aspects  of 
common  life. 

It  was  the  very  boldness  and  loftiness  of  Guthrie's 
ideal  that  charmed  the  people  so  much.  He  dared  to 
speak  for  the  right,  the  best  in  all  things,  he  appealed 
to  the  good  instinct  in  every  one,  and  it  came  so  spon- 
taneously, so  flowingly,  ringing  so  clearly  with  the 
truth,  and  clothed  in  such  beautiful  words  that  it  car- 
ried conviction  to  the  dullest.  There  was  none  who 
could  not  understand  him,  there  was  none  to  whom 
he  did  not  make  an  appeal,  and  there  was  none  whom 
he  did  not  carry  with  him  into  that  higher  region 
where  one  can  think  only  good  thoughts. 

He,  too,  was  borne  up  by  a  mental  exhilaration. 
The  words  came  of  their  own  accord — it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  merely  speaking  them,  an  organ  upon 
which  some  one  was  playing — he  used  few  gestures, 
and  his  face  was  still  pale,  but  his  eyes  were  alive. 
Thoughts  of  long  ago,  illustrations  forgotten  until 
then,  came  crowding  for  utterance,  and  always  he  had 
the  right  words  and  the  right  way  to  say  them.  The 
great  men  of  the  convention — those  who  had  spoken  in 
its  beginning,  leaned  forward  like  the  others,  and  let  its 
music  and  logic  pervade  them.  They  knew,  like  the 
crowd,  that  here  was  one  of  golden  speech,  and  they 
knew,  too,  it  was  a  gift  direct  from  the  gods:  an  orator, 
like  a  poet — born,  not  made. 

The  reporters  wrote  on  and  on,  and  the  telegraph 
boys  still  slipped  from  the  hall  with  sheet  after  sheet 
of  the  speech,  but  no  voice  was  heard  save  Guthrie's 


332  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

as  he  spoke  of  his  ideal-the  ideal  public  life,  and  the 
ideal  people— the  two  were  dependent  on  each  other, 
they  went  hand  in  hand,  he  said.     And  the  crowd 
hearing,  believed.     They  could  not  resist  the  logic  of 
that  voice  and  manner;  what  he  said  to  them  was 
true,  because  it  was  the  truth,  and  because  he  said  it. 
The  end  came  now,  the  last  of  the  golden  word; 
was  spoken,  the  orator  made  a  brief  bow,  and  turned 
from  the  stage.     For  a  few  moments  the  spell  lingered 
and  the  silence  continued.     Then  the  long-pent  emo- 
tion and  delight  of  the  audience  burst  forth,  and 
storm  of  cheers  swelled  and  roared  against  the  roof. 
Again   that   powerful   and   insistent  cry, 
"Guthrie!"  was  taken  up  and  every  one  in  the 
vention  sprang  to  his  feet. 

It  was  an  emotional  crowd,  keyed  to  a  high  pitch  by 
a  long  strain  of  doubt  and  excitement,  and  now  it  broke 
bounds.  Handkerchiefs  were  waved  like  the  flutter- 
ing of  a  snow-storm,  and  the  shifting  fans  glittered 
like  prisms  of  many  colours.  Again  and  again  the 
applause  rose  and  swelled  like  waves  of  the  sea,  but 
Guthrie  sat  at  his  desk,  limp  and  tired,  his  face  pale 
again.  The  Chairman  at  length  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  compelled  him  to  go  forward  and  bow.  Then  the 
applause  broke  out  afresh,  and  the  great  building 
trembled  with  the  concussion. 

The  cheering  died  at  last,  and  then  watchful  Jimmy 
Warfield,  back  again  in  his  seat  among  the  delegates, 
sprang  to  his  feet  on  his  chair,  and  instantly  caughl 
the  Chairman's  eye.  A  look  of  complete  understand- 
ing passed  between  the  two. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  shouted  Warfield,  and  again  the 
convention  became  silent. 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  333 

Warfield,  too,  was  silent  a  moment,  and  swept  the 
hall  with  a  comprehensive  eye.  He  saw  that  another 
critical  moment  had  come,  and  he  was  ready. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  "there  has  been  a  fight 
for  the  nomination  in  the  Fourth  District,  this  glorious 
Old  Fourth  that  all  of  us  love  so  much.  It  has  been  a 
long,  hard,  and  bitter  fight,  and  through  it  all  every 
one  has  been  in  the  dark.  We  have  not  been  able  to 
see  how  it  would  end,  we  could  not  see  a  light  ahead, 
and  many  of  us  have  thought  it  would  come  to  dis- 
aster and  ruin  for  the  Old  Fourth.  But  at  the  last 
moment — the  very  last  moment — there  has  arisen  one 
who,  all  unconsciously,  has  shown  us  the  way." 

He  paused  for  a  few  moments,  but  he  held  the  con- 
vention with  his  eye. 

"Yes,"  he  resumed,  "there  is  one  who  has  shown  us 
the  way,  he  has  come  among  us  like  an  apostle,  his 
words  are  tipped  with  lightning,  and  there  is  none  here 
who  has  resisted  their  force — none  who  has  cared  to 
do  so.  Gentlemen  of  the  convention,  we  know  the 
opposing  elements  that  are  in  this  hall,  we  know  how 
bitter  the  three  candidates  have  become  against  each 
other,  we  know  that  they  can  never  be  reconciled,  and 
we  know  now  that  no  one  of  the  three  can  ever 
be  elected.  But,  gentlemen  of  the  convention,  there  is 
another — another  man,  the  very  mention  of  whose 
name  will  set  you  all  on  fire — one  whose  supreme 
fitness  for  the  place  has  been  disclosed  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  the  blind  may  see.  Gentlemen  of  the  con- 
vention, I  wish  to  place  in  nomination  an  orator,  a 
statesman  and  a  genius,  William  Guthrie." 

Again  that  mighty  volume  of  cheering  went  up 
against  the  roof.  Guthrie  tried  to  spring  to  his  feet, 


334  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

but  Grayson  and  Hays  held  him  down.  When  the 
cheering  died  there  was  another  man  on  a  chair,  and 
it  was  the  member  from  the  Old  Fourth.  He  was 
pale  now,  but  he  stood  steadily,  and  everybody  in  the 
convention  knew  that  the  grace  of  God  had  touched 
Henry  Clay  Warner  at  last. 

The  Chairman  recognised  Mr.  Warner,  and  the 
convention  settled  into  silence. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  said  the  member  in  a  full,  firm 
voice,  "I  have  listened  to  all  that  the  gentleman  has 
said,  and  I  wish  to  endorse  every  word  of  it.  I  have 
known  William  Guthrie  a  long  time — since  he  was  a 
little  boy.  No  truer  or  more  honest  man  ever  drew 
the  breath  of  life.  He  has  been  a  good  and  loyal 
friend  of  mine,  and  he  is  yet.  I  have  wanted  the 
nomination  from  the  Old  Fourth,  but  I  recognise 
that  a  greater  than  myself  has  appeared,  without  any 
will  of  his  own,  in  the  field.  Therefore,  while  with- 
drawing in  favour  of  William  Guthrie  I  second  his 
nomination,  and  move  also  that  it  be  made  unani- 
mous." 

Again  the  audience  cheered  and  cheered,  and  now 
they  cheered  for  Warner,  too.  Headly  and  Graves 
quietly  left  the  hall,  as  they  saw  their  forces  slip  from 
them,  swept  on  by  the  universal  tide.  The  convention 
had  been  stampeded  for  Guthrie,  without  any  inten- 
tion on  his  part,  and  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  wards 
were  not  the  last  in  enthusiasm.  O'Hara,  Bluitt, 
and  Pursley  said  nothing,  but  in  stoical  silence  watched 
the  waves  roll  over  them. 

Guthrie  tried  to  spring  up  again,  but  as  before  Gray- 
son  and  Hays  held  him  back. 

The  Chairman  instantly  put  the  vote  on  the  motion. 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  335 

When  the  ayes  were  called  they  were  thundered  out, 
when  the  noes  were  called  there  was  silence. 

William  Guthrie  was  the  nominee  of  the  convention. 

His  eyes  wandered  again  to  the  box  and  met  hers 
shining  with  pure  joy. 

"Accept!"    "Accept!"  cried  the  crowd. 

"Accept!"  cried  the  Chairman.  "Headly  and 
Graves  have  just  notified  me  of  their  withdrawal. 
See,  here  are  their  notes.  It  is  you  or  nobody!" 

"Accept!"    "Accept!"   still   roared    the   crowd. 

Guthrie  saw  that  the  way  had  opened  without  any 
will  of  his  own,  and  that  it  was  the  only  way.  Many 
thoughts  passed  like  lightning  through  his  head.  He 
was  a  true  friend  of  Warner,  and  he  had  worked  faith- 
fully for  Headly  and  Graves,  but  this  was  the  call  of 
destiny.  He  met  her  eyes  again,  and  she  told  him  to 
accept.  Then  he  hesitated  no  longer. 

But  Guthrie  made  no  more  speeches  that  night. 
He  walked  forward  and  announced  simply  that  he 
accepted  the  great  honour  conferred  upon  him  so 
unexpectedly  by  the  convention,  and,  if  elected  would 
do  his  best  for  the  district,  his  State,  and  the  country. 
Then  he  sat  down  amid  more  cheers,  and  the  Chairman 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Gentlemen,"  Mr.  Stetson  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Guthrie 
is  now  the  nominee  of  the  convention,  and  we  promise 
each  and  every  one  of  us,  to  make  his  majority  six 
thousand." 

The  convention  roared  back  approval,  but  Mr. 
Stetson  underestimated  it.  When  the  vote  was  counted 
at  the  close  of  the  polls  on  election  day,  Guthrie's 
majority  proved  to  be  over  seven  thousand. 

Guthrie  was  still  in  a  sort  of  dream.    Something 


336  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

new  and  wonderful  had  happened  in  his  life,  a  thing 
perhaps  which  he  had  imagined  at  times  in  a  vague 
twilight  or  a  misty  dawn,  but  which  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  might  become  real.  The  hall  and  the 
figures  in  it  were  hazy,  and  he  did  not  feel  that  he  had 
yet  come  quite  back  to  earth. 

But  they  were  calling  for  him  again,  calling  so  pow- 
erfully and  so  insistently  that  he  must  respond,  and  he 
walked  forward  still  in  a  mist,  and  bowed  again  and 
again  to  the  applause  which  leaped  up  afresh  at  the 
sight  of  his  face.  When  he  returned  to  his  seat,  War- 
ner himself  came  upon  the  stage,  and  he  grasped 
Guthrie's  hand. 

"Billy,"  he  said — and  there  was  genuine  pleasure  in 
his  face,  and  relief,  too — relief  at  escape  from  the  snare 
of  the  toiler,  "I  congratulate  you.  It  was  the  finest 
speech  I  ever  heard  in  my  life,  and  since  I  couldn't 
have  the  nomination  myself — I  see  now  that  I  couldn't 
— I'm  glad  you  got  it.  And  I  know,  too,  that  it  came 
to  you  because  it  had  to;  you  never  worked  for  it." 

Guthrie  returned  Warner's  hand-shake  with  sincere 
joy.  He  would  not  have  in  Warner's  mind  any  lurk- 
ing feeling  against  him  because,  if  it  were  there,  it 
would  spoil  all  his  pleasure  in  the  nomination,  but  he 
knew  now  that  Warner  saw  and  understood. 

Then  his  friends  came,  the  Governor  and  his  wife, 
Carton  and  Mary  Pelham,  Jimmy  Warfield,  Senator 
Pike,  the  Bishop,  and  others.  He  saw  sincere  joy 
shining  in  the  eyes  of  every  one  of  them. 

"Billy,"  said  Carton,  "we  shall  go  to  Washington 
together,  but  I  shall  never  be  the  great  man  that  you 
are.  I  can  never  reach  the  heart  of  the  people  as  you 
do." 


THE  BREATH  OF  FAME  337 

"God  bless  you,  my  son!"  said  the  Bishop  simply. 

Then  came  a  quiet,  smoothly  shaven  man  in  a  gray 
sack  suit. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "I  am  perhaps  less  sur- 
prised at  this  revelation  than  anybody  else  in  the  hall. 
Believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  congratulate  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

It  was  Caius  Marcellus  Harlow  who  spoke. 

Next  came  the  gigantic  blacksmith,  Connell,  who 
imprisoned  his  hand  in  a  grip  like  that  of  his  own  vise. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  he  said,  "I  thought  of  you  for  it, 
when  you  were  in  that  room  talkin'  so  well  to  Mr. 
Warner,  and  I'll  be  proud  to  vote  for  you." 

"Billy,"  exclaimed  Tommy  Newlands  with  enthu- 
siasm, "I'm  going  to  write  another  poem  about  you!" 

"And  I'll  see  that  it  gets  printed  this  time!"  said 
Warfield. 

Guthrie  glanced  toward  the  auditorium  where  the 
crowd  still  lingered,  and  he  saw  O'Hara  and  Bluitt 
sheepishly  leaving  the  hall.  Council's  eyes  followed  his. 

"They'll  vote  for  you,  and  they'll  work  for  you, 
too,"  said  the  blacksmith.  "They  have  to  or  they'll 
be  dead  forever  politically.  The  eyes  of  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  wards  are  on  'em." 

The  crowd  began  to  go  out  at  last.  The  clock  in 
the  church  steeple  was  striking  three.  Guthrie  looked 
at  the  empty  seats,  the  floor  littered  with  newspapers, 
and  the  electric  lights  that  still  glared  overhead.  "  What 
a  change  has  occurred  in  those  last  two  hours!"  he 
thought. 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mr.  Ransome  who  stood  at  his 
elbow,  "it  is  late,  and  you  are  very  tired.  We  have 
two  carriages  waiting  for  our  party,  and  we  shall  be 


338  GUTHRIE  OF  THE  TIMES 

glad  to  drop  you  off  at  your  house.  We  shall  consider 
it  an  honour." 

Clarice  was  behind  them  and  she  said  nothing,  but 
there  was  a  deep  colour  in  her  face;  her  eyes  told  him 
to  come. 

Mr.  Ransome  turned  away  to  see  about  the  carriages, 
and  Clarice  said  to  Guthrie: 

"All  your  life  you  have  been  helping  people  to  great 
rewards,  and  now  your  own  has  come  to  you  at  last." 

"But  I  am  going  to  ask  for  far  more  than  I  have 
now,"  he  said. 

"Why  what  is  it?"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  her 
face  flooded  with  sudden  and  deeper  colour. 

"I  am  asking  for  you,  Clarice.  Don't  you  see  that 
I  love  you,  that  I  have  long  loved  you  I  I  can  ask  you 
now.  Won't  you  be  my  wife,  Clarice?" 

She  put  her  hand  in  his  and  replied  softly: 

"Yes,  I  am  yours." 

"Mr.  Guthrie,"  said  Mr.  Ransome,  as  they  drove 
through  the  streets,  "I  should  think  that  you  are  a 
very  happy  man  this  morning." 

"I  am,  but  there  is  one  thing  lacking  to  complete 
my  happiness,"  replied  Guthrie. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"Your  daughter.  Give  her  to  me,"  said  the  new 
statesman  boldly. 

A  twinkle  appeared  in  Mr.  Ransome's  eye. 

"Perhaps  I  should,"  he  replied,  "because  if  I 
don't  you  will  take  her.  I'll  see  that  Jane  approves 
too.  Leave  that  to  me.  And  Mr.  Guthrie  I  have 
just  learned  to  believe  in  you." 

A  soft,  warm  hand  stole  into  his. 

"Billy,  I  always  believed  in  you,"  she  said. 


" '  But  I  am  going  to  ask  for  far  more  than  I  have  now 


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